Between Guilt and Innocence
by RebelByrdie
Summary: Murder, betrayl and time tore the Crime Lab apart. Now, five years later, new evidence surfaces that turns what they thought was the truth into the biggest mystery of them all. The truth lies somewhere between guilt and innocence.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** The Author does not, nor does she claim to, own the television show _CSI_. All characters, affiliated symbols and recognizable content belong to the rightful creators and the television networks that they are contracted to. All "original" characters, locations, events and circumstances are, unless otherwise noted, fictional. Any resemblance to persons: living, dead or otherwise copyrighted, are unintended and by occur only by coincidence. No financial gain from the production or public distribution of this story. The content is for entertainment only and no harm or offence is intended.

**Rated M for Mature: **Scenes of Graphic Violence and Rape; Adult Situations and Themes; Nudity and Lascivious Behavior; Course Language.

**Spoiler Warning:** The following story contains information and scenes taken from and alluding to episodes of _CSI_ especially the Season Six Finale, _Way To Go_ If, for whatever reason, you have not seen said episodes and do not wish to be spoiled, discontinue your reading now.

**Content Warning: **The following story deals with sexual and emotional relationships that are both heterosexual (mf) and homosexual (ff). In other words, there is femeslash ahead. If you are somehow offended by such relationships, please stop reading now.

**Warning: **Major Character Death and Angst.

**Author's Note: **This story is not for the feint of heart. It does not highlight the kinder, fuzzier sides of life. It is dark and angsty and that's probably sugar-coating it a wee bit. If you're looking for fluff, sorry, this isn't going to be up your ally. Of course, I'm not exactly known for my romps through fluff-central, am I?

The main story is set in 2012, which is roughly five years from now. _Italics_ will indicate flashbacks, which will be set in 2007. This story is by no means, my usual fare. From pairings to plot, this story is a step outside of the box for me, and I'm excited by it.

To give credit and thanks where they are due: I would like to say that the inspiration for this story comes from El Gringo Loco. While this is not a Challenge Fic, his comments and suggestions played a big role in the creation of this particular plot. So a big heads up and thanks to El Gringo Loco.

As always, a huge thank you goes out to my beta reader, HoneyLynx86 for fixing my many many mistakes.

Surprisingly enough, I'm done here.

Now, sit back and get lost for a bit in the darkest pits of my imagination.

Between Guilt and Innocence

A CSI Tale

By RebelByrdie

_Prologue _

They say Justice is blind, and they say it like it's a good thing. All that really means is that it's all the easier to lead her by the hand to a dark ally to be gang raped and sodomized. That is what has become of the American Justice System. It is a broken, bleeding victim feeling its way around, vainly hoping to find the light of day once more. Then again, I may be biased. I would have never said these things, thought these things before. It would have been the worst kind of blasphemy. I didn't just believe in the system, I lived for it.

Five years ago, I had everything. A career I loved, a solid and very satisfying relationship with the man of my dreams, a rent controlled apartment and big dreams. I was at the top of my game, the peak of my life; I was happy, healthy and everything was going to be okay.

I should have known better. My life has never been all chocolates, roses, and happily ever-afters. Even when I was a kid, my life was defined by blood spatter, bruises and broken hearts. It was only a matter of time before things went wrong. Copper in the air, blood on my hands, and a knife on the floor. It was all so familiar - a nightmare come to life - again. It's a nightmare that I've yet to wake up from.

My name is Prisoner S38401S, and I am living the last of my days out in a nine-by-nine solitary cell, accused and convicted of First Degree Murder with a handful of aggravating circumstances. All my appeals have failed and I know when and how I will die. I've got two months to the day until the State of Nevada pumps my veins full of poison. I've chosen my last meal, written my final will and testament, but I'll never really make my peace. You can't find peace if you have no idea what it looks or feels like. That sounds cynical, but I think I'm entitled to a little cynicism at this point in my rapidly dwindling life.

I long ago resigned myself to my fate. Some call it apathy, others call it courage; I call it being a realist. Another inmate, Crazy Daisy, says that innocence is only a frame of mind. She says that only two beings are capable of judging our actions: God and ourselves. So if we know we're innocent and God knows we're innocent nothing else matters. She's very philosophical like that, on the days when she's not convinced that she's a time traveling do-gooder stuck in an inmate's body or the Duchess of York. If you listen to Crazy Daisy, and sometimes I do, it makes you think. It does me at least. When I think about it, I realize I'm not all that innocent after all. I may not have stabbed him in the chest twenty seven times, but I'm no less guilty than the real murderer.

Not that any of it really matters anymore. My name used to be Sara Sidle and they think I killed the man I loved. I am on death row for the murder of Gilbert Grissom.

Author's Note: Now does everyone see why I put a big honking disclaimer on there? Send your reviews, may the be good, bad or outraged, along.


	2. Chapter I: Shifting Sands

_Chapter I_

_Shifting Sands_

Nothing in Vegas ever stayed the same. Time rushed by, reaping changes faster then she could really keep up with. Her own office was a sign of that. The days of paperwork, the kind she'd once despised, were fading into the twilight. Her desk was now a streamlined step into the next age of technology. Its inlaid touch panels and view screens made her feel like she was on the _Enterprise_ instead of The Las Vegas Crime Lab. Beside her glasses, the ones she was wearing more and more often now, was her PDA, the little electronic notebook that was never far from her grasp. Technology certainly did make things easier. Her kit was almost feather light when she compared it to the fifty-pound monstrosity she'd carried in her first years of CSI work. For all of its conveniences, though, technology could also be a bitch. A bitch that silently waited to slap at you, and when it did strike, it was a K-O punch. The entire lab had almost screeched to a halt while Keith, their resident AV Tech was networking all the new technologies together. Bill Gates had died a very, very rich man two years before and his children, and their children, were reaping the benefits, and would continue to until the Armageddon. The lucky bastards.

Not that her own daughter, now a sophomore at UCLA, liked for anything. No, the boisterous young undecided major she was supporting burnt up her VISA and cellphone and flitted from one boy to the next. Catherine picked up the framed picture of her daughter and indulged herself for a moment. Lindsey was in college. Her baby girl wasn't a baby anymore. God, when she'd been Lindsey's age, she'd been peeling it off in the French Palace. Damn, that had been forever ago. She could see her own ghostly reflection in the glass of the frame. She wasn't twenty or even thirty years old anymore. God help her, she was getting closer and closer to fifty every day. She didn't look half bad, though. She hadn't gone gray, and even if she had, religious trips to the salon kept her hair blonde and luscious. Her skin had, despite countless hours spent under the desert sun, had remained smooth, though there were lines around her mouth, and the bags under her eyes were becoming harder and harder to hide. As hard as she tried to fight it, she wasn't getting any younger.

A sound at her door knocked her out of her thoughts.  
"Yes?"

A head poked inside and further reminded Catherine of how much had changed. Gillian Rayne seemed impossibly young. She had been with the lab for four - or was it five? - years now, but to Catherine, the CSI III was still "new"; maybe she would always be. Gillian was built like an Amazon and had a mind like a steel trap. Catherine honestly liked the woman, she reminded her very much of herself when she'd been younger. Not just because the lab rats all drooled over her, either. The woman's dark mane of hair was pulled into a thick braid that fell down her back and her dark eyes sparked with amusement. "Hey, Boss." She leaned in the doorway, "I was hoping to borrow you for something." Catherine grinned, "Sure. It's not like I can do a lot with the systems down." Gillian grinned, "Yeah, Keith is up to his ass in wires and computer stuff right now. I swear the guy is _part_ computer. He's the love child of some poor pathetic programmer and his ten year old Mac." Catherine snorted a laugh. "Jeez, lay off the guy." The woman struck a pose as if she was thinking about it, but eventually shook her head, "Why would I want to do that?" Catherine grinned, "Because eventually you'll want him to do something for you and you won't want to have to stoop to offering him a date to get it." Gillian's boisterous laugh echoed off the frosted glass walls. "Why do I have a feeling you're speaking from personal experience?" Another voice joined theirs, "Because she is." Warrick Brown offered both women a smile. "But trust me, Keith Gannon is a thousand times better then the lab rat Cath had to go with." Catherine rolled her eyes, "Hodges, ick."

Warrick Brown, her one constant. They were the last of the "old crowd". Nicky had gone back to Texas and ran a team out of San Antonio. Greg had gotten a job with the LAPD Crime Lab. Their little converted lab rat was doing well for himself. She had read his last article in _Forensics Today_, she was proud of him. Techs had left them floating around to better opportunities. Wendy had gone to Quantico and Archie had started his own business, even Doc Robbins was enjoying his retirement. She wasn't ashamed to admit that she missed them. Not that she did so out loud, but it was the thought that counted. Warrick, too, had changed. He was divorced now, and the proud father of three. He didn't get to see his children, Marcus Quintin and darling little Ava, as often as he'd like, but he was a better Dad then Eddie Willows had ever dreamed of being.

The faces had changed, the technology had advanced; they'd even squeezed a remodel out of the forever tight city budget. But, one thing stayed the same. Scenes still needed to be worked. Catherine looked at Warrick, "How's your case?" He jerked a shoulder, "It's going. I've got Scooter and Fawn going over the car, but the DNA results are going slow because of the updates." They skirted around a worker who had their top half in through a gap in the ceiling, cursing at some computer hook up that Catherine wouldn't be able to identify and explain even if her life depended on it. "Don't call Stephen 'Scooter', you're just encouraging it, 'Rick." Beside them, Gillian grinned, "He brings it on himself, honestly." Catherine rolled her baby blues. "Kids."

By the time she'd helped Gillian, caught up Stephen and Fawn and badgered Keith to hurry the updates along, she was more than ready to return to her office.

She stopped in the doorway, her hand raised to knock. It was an old habit, one she hadn't broke, not even after five years. A small part of her would forever think of this office as Gil's, not her own. The insects were long gone and she'd even remolded and rearranged the inside. It was, and probably always be, Gil's Office. Hell, if not for one woman, it probably would still be Gil Grissom's Office. Not for the first time, Catherine silently damned Sara Sidle to Hell.

Author's Note: To settle any confusion before it crops up: _Italics indicate the scene took place in 2007_ as opposed to the "present" year of 2012. Clear as mud? Good.


	3. Chapter II: Life or Something Like It

_Chapter II_

_Life or Something Like It_

The dream came again, silently, softly, seductively, like a lover to her lonely bed.

_(January 2007)_

_The Phillips-Jenkins Wedding was a gorgeous affair. The bride was resplendent in white, the groom looked handsome in his tux, and no one would ever realize that almost half of those in attendance on the Groom's side dealt with victims and their murderers on a fairly regular basis. The black tie, solemn church wedding went quickly and more than a few eyes leaked tears. _

_It was the reception where the guests mingled and fun was plenty. Ties were loosened, heels were shed, and the mood was light and celebratory. Instead of the highly paid professional, Archie had his hand-cam out, catching everyone on video. _

_Faces floated by. People she had known, friends she'd considered family. Nick, Greg and Warrick with their dress shirts rolled up to their elbows, ties undone. They were laughing and sipping at glasses of champagne. When Catherine, who stuck out like a peacock in a crowd of blackbirds in her bold blue dress, grabbed Warrick's hand and dragged him to the dance floor, all the black man could do was grin. Not to be outdone, Nick had gone a couple of tables over and snagged Wendy Simms from DNA. Before he'd even had a chance to look around, the maid of honor had Greg by the arm. _

_The Bride and Groom were gorgeous together and so obviously in love that it was almost too sweet. _

_The wedding had been lovely. The food was good, even if she'd had to skip over a lot of it. The champagne was superb and because she didn't have to work that night, she'd indulged herself in a second glass, and was contemplating a third._

_She'd mixed, she'd mingled, she'd been hit on by more men than she was comfortable with. Now all she wanted to do was go home. It wasn't that she was in a poor mood, or even put out, or dare she say it, disappointed. She just wasn't in a **social** mood. She tugged at the hem of her new dress. Her highly expensive new dress. She had no idea why she'd splurged on the dress. It wasn't like she had many excuses to fix herself up like this. Honestly, who needed a barely there, silk dress anyway, especially a deep wine red one? She was pretty sure she'd been channeling Catherine when she'd all but maxed out her VISA with the purchase, and again when she'd burnt up her American Express with matching shoes and Victoria's Secret lingerie to wear beneath. That had been seriously over-the-top. No one was going to see what was under her dress anyway, not with the way **he** was acting. No, nope, uh-uh, she was not going there again. Sara mentally chastised herself, she wasn't going to ruin a perfectly good afternoon by brooding over her _über-_secret quasi-relationship with Gilbert Grissom._

_She felt her fingers tighten around the stem of her glass. The jerk – bastard – she corrected herself. She was no longer in a Church and could feel free to curse Gilbert Grissom to the blackest pits of Hell, guilt-free. The Bastard hadn't even sat beside her during the ceremony. She'd ended up on the end of the pew beside Greg. Now he was all but ignoring her. Forget the silk dress and what lay beneath it, she could be naked and he would have still paid her no more notice. At this rate, she'd have to **die** and be covered in **bugs** for him to recognize her in public._

_Her ears twitched when the band switched styles. She hadn't even danced, he hadn't asked her to dance. She should just grab the next guy that wasn't Greg and didn't have two left feet and show him what she was capable of. She had just about been ready to drag Jim Brass on to the floor with her when a light hand touched her arm. "You up for a dance, Sidle?" She turned and was somewhat surprised to see Sofia standing beside her. Hadn't the blonde beauty in black been across the room just a minute before? She knew she had. She'd seen her there, alone. Apparently, Sofia hadn't bothered using the plus one part of her invitation either. The other woman had been fending off 'Wedding Crashers' wanna-bes all afternoon. Not that Sara blamed them at all. Sofia's black dress was classic and yet it was undeniably perfect for the other woman, it hugged every plane and curve that the Detective had. Blonde hair flowed down her back and her aristocratic blue eyes were twinkling, set off by the gold and sapphire necklace she was wearing._

_She cocked a brow, "You can do that?" She motioned to the dance floor. She was treated to one of Sofia Curtis's patented looks. "Do you think you can keep up?" Sara felt the corners of her mouth jerk up. "Let's go scandalize Super Dave's new in-laws."_

_Somehow, Sofia had ended up leading. The hot beat pushed them into a fast paced and spicy routine. Their feet tapped out a complicated pattern on the highly polished floor and their bodies flowed along with the music and each other. Sara's hand had found purchase on Sofia's bare shoulder and she could feel the heat of Sofia's touch through the silk on her hip. Sara forgot about the people watching, about Gil, about everything, but Sofia and the dance. _

_Sofia caught her a little bit by surprise when she spun her out, but almost forgotten instinct had her turning back towards her and completing the move. They ended up spooned together for a precious heartbeat of a moment. Their bodies were flush, her back snug against Sofia's front, against each other. Sofia leaned close and whispered something in her ear. Sara nodded and Sofia's hands went around her and they turned together, moving with the fiery beat of the music. Neither of them had even noticed that all the other dancers had stopped; all eyes were on them. _

_When the music came to a crescendo, Sofia smiled and Sara met her eyes. She felt competent arms around her and her heeled feet left the floor and for a second, she was flying. Their lift was perfect; it would have left the entire cast of 'Dancing with the Stars' drool. When Sara's feet touched the ground again, she found that she was still a bit weightless, her senses swirled and swayed. So, she could do nothing but move along with Sofia as she whirled her into the next awe-inspiring move. The music came to an end, and they froze in place. Above her, one of Sofia's hands was held back, artistically frozen in the air; the other was hot on her back, holding her in a deep dip. Her own back was arched over the floor, with her hands held up and back, flawlessly posed. They never broke eye contact. They might have stayed that way forever but the scattered applause broke the spell. As it roared around them, Sara watched a smile go across Sofia's face, brilliant and beautiful. Sara felt laughter bubbling up in her chest and throat and when Sofia lifted her back to her feet, it burst free._

_She looked at her dancing partner, still chuckling, "I haven't done that since **college**." Sofia smiled and bumped shoulders with her. "You'd never know." Sara pushed a curl back behind her ear. "Look who's talking. What, did they teach you that at the Police Academy?" Sofia winked at her, "Right between target practice and high speed chase class."_

_Sara looked up to meet the gaze of the shocked guys, the intrigued Catherine and the silently seething Gil. She ignored him and looked over at the Bride and Groom. "Didn't mean to steal the show." David, whose jaw was still a little slack, only stared. His new wife only smiled, "I'll forgive you...this time." _

She bolted up in her bunk, chest heaving. Sara held the pitifully thin blanket to her chest and tried to control the tears that were now silently pouring out of her eyes. Out of all the ghoulish nightmares she had, that was the worst. There was no blood, no screams, only one of the purest, sweetest memories she had. Her last day as a free woman, the epitome of what she'd once had, what she'd never get, and everything she had lost. The dregs of the memory swirled in her mind's eye. She shook herself to clear her head. She had enough demons to haunt her; she didn't want the good memories to eat away at what was left of her soul too.

Her ears tuned into the sounds of the beginnings of the morning. One thing she never missed was her wristwatch; you always knew what time it was at the Penitentiary.

The day began with Roll Out and Call at six in the morning. Making sure everyone was accounted for and in the approximate shape they had been in the night before, they moved on. Breakfast was served from seven-twenty to seven-fifty and by eight o'clock on the nose, she was at her assigned workstation. Noon found the "guests" of the Penitentiary at lunch. Barring any unforeseen difficulties, like murders, riots, and escape attempts, from one o'clock to two, she and the rest of her cellblock were allowed to go out to the yard for their daily requirement of sunlight and exercise. From two to six, she was confined to her cellblock under careful guard. At six, there was another head count, usually a bitching out and then dinner was served. By seven, everyone was locked back down and the lights went out at ten PM sharp.

To pass the time, she settled herself in the floor and began a simple yoga routine. She'd never been big on yoga before, but she didn't exactly have many options anymore.

Having a cell to herself was one of the "perks" of being on death row. As the Warden, Caleb Rhett, had told her, the budget was too tight and the prison far too populated to give her all that much special treatment. What the bastard had really been saying was that he was gleefully throwing her to the bloodthirsty bitches in the general population. No cop, and in this world all CSI stood for was fancy cop, lasted very long in the general population. The many inmates, some she had helped put in jail, hated her and she had the scars to prove it. It was Tuesday, so she wasn't surprised when Paula was the guard that clanged on her cell door. She went to the metal door and presented herself, both her face and her ID bracelet. Yes, she was indeed Prisoner S38401S, an alphanumeric statistic and a nobody for the guards to babysit. Guards, Sara refused to live up to some old soft-core porn standard and call them screws. Paula marked her off on her palm pilot and Sara returned to her stretching. She could see the first rays of the desert sunshine pouring through her imaginary window and she sighed wistfully. The door automatically clanged open and Sara stood up, because ready or not, another day had begun on Cell Block H.

That was her life, or something like it.

Author's Note: As many hours as I dedicate to plotting out murders, rapes and other crimes, it may come as a shock to find out that I've never been to jail. I've never been arrested or even lectured strongly by the police. I have gotten a couple of traffic tickets, but that's about as far as that goes. In fact the last ticket I got, I spent about fifteen minuites afterwards talking to the patrol officer about her gun, bullet proof vest and background. (Yes, she thought I was just a bit strange too) So everything about Sara in prison is taken from Hollywood and literary portrayls and my imagination.


	4. Chapter III: The More Things Change

_Chapter III_

_The More Things Change_

The body had been brutalized, beaten almost to the point of non-recognition. Catherine crouched over it and waited for the coroner, a fresh from the university twenty-something by the name of Yvonne, to show up. She didn't need the coroner to tell her COD, though, it was obvious. They'd lost another to the Fremont Fights. It was a brutal, bare knuckles fight club that operated underground and left dead bodies in its wake. The brand on his shoulder, two intertwined Fs, was still fresh. This poor schmuck had probably just participated in and lost his first and only fight. It was almost a waste, bringing Stephen out her with her. The CSI I was on perimeter, though, she didn't expect him to find anything useful.

"Chalk up another one for the Fights, huh?" She looked up and saw the heavily muscled form of one of the Homicide Detectives that worked nights. She stood up. "You caught this one too, huh, Con?" Conner Tipps was a bear of a man. He stood six foot six if he was an inch, weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds, and every ounce of it was pure muscle. He'd lead the NFL in sacks for the 2008 season and had been looking at a promising career with the Super Bowl bound Green Bay Packers when a miracle interception had turned into a nightmare three-on-one tackle. He'd blown his knee, and his pro career, but had graduated Penn State with a degree in Criminal Justice.

Catherine liked him. He was a good detective, and despite the locker room talk, the man had earned his Detective's shield. His rough-hewn face was cast in shadow as he looked over the scene. "There are plenty of third rate motels that wouldn't mind hosting a less-than-legal get-together around here. Not if their check cleared."

As they were on a less-than-affluent part of Dockery Avenue, way off the strip, she was inclined to agree. "The uniforms could canvass, but we're talking hundreds of rooms and thousands of lookey-loos who don't know anything." He blew out a breath, "The first rule about Fight Club... Well, we'll do it anyway. I want these guys." Catherine nodded and looked down, once more, at the decimated face of a young boy who looked like he should have been passing notes with Lindsey in English 314, instead of lying dead on the street. "We'll see what we can do."

Yvonne arrived, and paused a minute to send Tipps a look before going to her duties. Catherine looked around the scene and got out her Digital Notebook. Now was going to be as good a time as any to start taking her notes.

Unlike the paper of yesteryear, the touch screen didn't crumple, wrinkle or tear. Using the stylus, she jotted down notes and sketched out the scene. They didn't really rely on sketches anymore, but the habit was ingrained, and while procedure didn't include it anymore, she worked best with a sketch to build from. Photographs and full area scans were much more efficient and up-to-date. Give it another year or so and they'd be able to recreate scenes with three-dimensional projections. She'd once asked Gil if he was afraid that technology would replace him. He'd answered no, but of course, he'd never even dreamed of some of the capabilities she had now. A ping alerted her to the fact that the victim's fingerprints had been matched to the database. She tapped a few keys and pulled up his ID. He had the right build and coloring, though the face was mostly a loss. The fingerprints matched up though. Thanks to wireless Ethernet and the Identification Act of 2010, an offshoot of the earlier Patriot Act, she knew their victim's name was.

She looked over at Stephen as he scanned the evidence with his Digital Notebook, or DN as the younger crowd called them for short. He carefully noted everything before he bagged and vacuum sealed it for transportation to the lab. "Man, I hope Keith has everything running. Seriously, the backlog is turning epic." Catherine shook her head, "I remember when DNA analysis took _days_, this is nothing." A glare told the much younger man that comments about her age would not be tolerated, so he only shrugged, "Sometimes I don't see how you guys did it all without DNs or AR Tech." Catherine chuckled, "We've only had them for three years or so; back in the stone age, as I'm sure you think of it, we used a little thing called skill."

* * *

Good-natured ribbing about skill, or lack there of, lasted all the way back to the lab. Her good mood might have lasted a lot longer, but her least favorite person in the entire world was waiting for her. She ground her teeth together, "Ecklie." The years had had little effect on the weasel of a man. There was, perhaps, a little less hair on his head, but he made up for it with plenty of misplaced arrogance. "Catherine." Her only hope was that he would get that Deputy Sheriff position and would be out of her hair, come election, in two more years. His suit looked just as off-the-rack as ever, and he sent her a smile that he probably thought was charming. "I came by to see how the updates were coming." She shrugged, "And I came by to solve a murder, Conrad. You remember what that's like, right?" He didn't seem particularly amused by her comment. "Look, I put these updates in your hands." He looked around at the missing ceiling panels and the cords that were littering the halls and labs, "And I'm starting to regret it." Catherine swooped into the Trace Lab and dropped the plastic evidence bags, with the appropriate electronic file numbers and her initials carefully written on them, in the inbox. "Look, this would have been done _days_ ago if you'd let me hire one of Archie's teams to come in here and do it for us." One would have thought that having once employed the man who'd revolutionized Forensic Technology would have made Ecklie happy; it didn't. "You said Gannon could do it." She sighed, "I said Keith knew how to do it, not that he could sub himself in for an entire team of highly trained professionals." He shook his head, "We can argue this until doomsday. Get it done and do it quickly, period." She watched him walk off, muttering to himself and clamped down on the childish urge to flip him off behind his back. She needed coffee.

Despite all the changes, one thing remained the same. The nightshift ran on coffee, and the coffee was in the break room. So were a handful of her CSIs. Warrick was on his cell phone, obviously arguing with Tina. There had been a time, years ago, when he would have done so in private. Those days were long over. "Damn it, Tina, I don't care what Jack and his family has planned, this is my weekend with the kids." He ran, sighed, and ran his hands through his hair. "No we can't trade off; I have to work next weekend. Yes, I know that his ball game is on Tuesday and, yes, I'll be there. Look, I don't have time to argue about this with you. I _will_ be there on Friday morning to get them and I _will _bring them back Sunday evening, end of discussion." There was a pause and Warrick scowled, "Don't like it? Talk to a Judge, I know 'em all." He ended the call and blew out a breath. She knew exactly what was going through his head, the same thing that had gone through hers so many times with Eddie. Why had he gotten married in the first place?

Fawn Drex pretended to not be listening, her head buried in a Forensics Journal. She looked up and saw Catherine, "Hey, Catherine. How's the Fight Club thing going?"

Fawn topped the scales at a little bit over five feet and one hundred whopping pounds. She had the dark coloring of her father, who had immigrated from India, the sharp mind of her mother who was the CEO of a multi-billion dollar company and an attitude all her own. An attitude, Catherine mused, that more often than not, got her in trouble. "It's not, unfortunately. Your 419?" The woman shrugged, "I've done everything I can with the computers down. Now it's sort of a waiting game." Catherine nodded absently and poured herself a cup of coffee. "Ecklie's already been in and bitched about the updates." Warrick rolled his eyes and Fawn muttered something in a foreign language. Something Catherine didn't have to be able to translate to know that it had been inappropriate for the work place. Catherine raised a brow, "Well, since you feel so strongly about it, go help Keith out with it." The woman pushed her hands through her chaotically styled and streaked hair. "I'll go light a fire under his ass." Catherine watched her leave and flopped down on the couch beside Warrick. He smiled at her, "Hey there, Boss-Lady." She lightly shoved him. "Half of our team is just out of their twenties and the other half act like it." She laid her head on the back of her couch, "How the hell did we get to be so old?" He chuckled, and stretched, "Don't know, but I'm going to go bother all the young 'whipper-snappers', I need my trace results back sometime this century."


	5. Chapter IV: Mail Call

_Chapter IV_

_Mail Call_

They stood in line for lunch, standing on a painted line in the middle of the corridor while the guards checked to make sure everyone that was there should be there and everyone that wasn't there, wasn't. It was Monday, and that meant mail. The Inmates of H Block, all violent murderesses, were dressed in their usual uniform of orange, and Sara was no different. She stood between Mary Ross, a woman serving twenty-five to life for the murder of her boyfriend, and Renee Valentine, a woman serving a double life sentence for the murders of two of her coworkers. Mary was, Sara knew, a pretty decent human being. Sara almost felt sorry for her. Mary had been high at the time of her murder and still couldn't recall the act. Sara knew this because she had worked the case. There were no hard feelings between the two of them, though. The same thing, however, could not be said about herself and Renee. Renee had done her deed in Carson City, a long way out of Sara's old jurisdiction. That didn't matter since Sara had been a cop and, therefore, Renee hated her. Renee had been using the revolving door of the prison system since she had been fifteen and didn't trust pigs, and Sara's past reeked of pork. The fact that she was standing close enough for Sara to feel her hot breath on the back of her neck was less then comforting.

They marched along the line, Guards watching them closely. One guard sat at a small table at the door of the mess hall. The table was littered with envelopes, the incoming mail, and there was a bag beside her for the inmates to deposit their outgoing mail. They shuffled forward, one at a time. Some of the inmates received or deposited mail, others only waited impatiently to get to lunch. Sara accepted her single piece of mail with a nod and tucked it under her arm.

The line moved into the large, echoing cafeteria. Sara's nose wrinkled at the less-than-appetizing smell of the "food" they were serving up in the line. She moved almost on automatic through the line, sliding her plastic tray along the line. When one of the hair-net wearing cafeteria-workers dropped a ladle full of some kind of watery beef and noodle casserole in the main part of her tray, her stomach turned sourly. The limp side salad didn't look all that great, but she would at least be able to stomach that and the rock-hard roll they gave out. The drink of the day was a weak attempt at lemonade. Prison cuisine at its finest. She wandered to her usual table and sat down, putting the still unopened letter down beside her.

"Oh God, here we go again." The table had been empty when she'd sat down, but it never stayed that way for long. She sent the blonde sitting across from her a glare. "Don't start." The woman reached down and locked the wheels on her wheelchair. "I don't see why you don't just go ahead and read it. You always cave in, anyway." The chair on Sara's right was pulled back and a sandy haired woman sat down and ripped open the envelope she had in her own hands. Melissa crossed her arms, "See, Tina doesn't waste any time." Sara rolled her eyes, "Tina is completely different."

Tina Collins and Melissa Winters, had someone told her that she'd be friends with women she had personally put in prison, she would have had a good laugh. Melissa had been an ADA. One who had gotten away with murdering her husband. Or she had, until the bullet that had been lodged in her neck, a memento from the "attack", had been surgically removed. Sara had wanted to bring Melissa justice, instead she had brought the wheelchair-bound woman to justice. She had given her justice and peace, and for that, Melissa was grateful. Tina's case was, at the same time, completely different and depressingly similar to Melissa's. Raped by her father again and again, Tina had turned against him and her entire family when her father had turned on the girl that was both Tina's sister and child. It was this child, Brenda, who wrote to her. It was also Brenda, that Sara and Tina had bonded over. Brenda had been very special to Sara.

Tina looked up from her letter, "What? Different?" She caught sight of the plain white envelope beside Sara's tray. "Oh God, is it already time for Sara's weekly song-and-dance?" The younger woman put her own letter down and snatched at the envelope. "If she doesn't want to read it, I will." Sara grabbed the woman's wrist. "Don't." A slight smirk played across Tina's features. "Uh-huh. You'll have read it a hundred times by lights out." Melissa seconded the thought, "And by tomorrow there will be yet another reply in the box of unsent letters under her bunk." Sara scowled at the women who were supposed to be her friends. "You are bad people." Both Tina and Melissa laughed, and Tina shook her head, "Thanks for the news flash."

* * *

The day progressed in its usual way. It was almost a carbon copy of the one-thousand-seven hundred and twenty one days that had come before it. Nine PM found Sara lying on her too-hard bunk, staring at the ceiling of her cell. There were still twelve cracks, and if she squinted and turned her head to the side, those cracks still looked like a kangaroo. The letter, still unopened, lay on her stomach. 

Melissa's last words, before they had been taken back to their cells after dinner, echoed in her ears. "Tell her I say 'Hi'." Alone now, Sara blew out a breath. "I always do." She pulled back the flap of the envelope and carefully opened it. Five handwritten pages, three blank sheets of notebook paper and a neatly folded, addressed and stamped return letter fell out. She set the blank pages and envelope aside and ran her fingers along the five pages of correspondence. The handwriting was neat, precise and achingly familiar. The curves and swoops of the almost calligraphic style were as familiar to her as her own far less legible scrawl. Though she knew it was probably her own deprived senses playing tricks on her, she could swear she could smell gunpowder and subtle scent of Revlon's Fire and Ice. The two scents that she most associated with Sofia Curtis.

Her name alone made Sara smile a little bit. Five years and the woman still wrote her every week, despite the fact that she had never written back to her. Sometimes the woman included clippings of articles about new theories in Physics, or new procedures in Forensics. Other times, there were tales of interesting cases or little stories that made Sara smile. Her letters, full of life and the other woman's personality brought Sara joy, and more importantly, hope. Sofia had been on her side the entire time, ever since that first horrible night.

_December 2006_

_Blood, blood, there was blood everywhere. The bed, the walls, the floor, dripping from his dangling fingertips. This couldn't be real. It just couldn't be real. That wasn't Gil lying on the bed, in a mess of his own blood and bodily fluids. Her eyes saw it, and her mind, as paralyzed as it was, deciphered the scene. Blood spatter, cast off, murder weapon. She checked for a pulse, but couldn't find one. How could a man still be living with so many holes in his chest? _

_Daddy?_

_Gil?_

_Past and present blurred. Her world blurred and spun. She had blood on her hands. So much blood. She backed into the corner. She would never remember screaming. _

_People came. People she knew, people she didn't know. Blurs of faces and sounds. She could hear cursing and the sounds of someone losing their lunch. Her shirt was covered in blood, though, she couldn't remember hurting herself. _

_Catherine came, she recognized the red-gold hair and the angry blue eyes. The other woman looked from Gil to her, back and forth, back and forth._

_The understanding, horrible and ice-cold broke through the trauma-induced stupor. They thought she had done this. No. No. No, that was wrong. They had to work the scene. Look for clues. Whoever had done this was still out there. Oh God, he was still out there._

_She couldn't force the words out of her throat. She hadn't - couldn't - have done this. She wasn't Laura. She was Sara. She was Sara, damn it. Time began to blur together. She limply allowed herself to be taken to the lab. The lab was safe; she would be able to get her bearings there. She would be able to help there._

"_Sara."_

_She looked up from where she had been staring at her hands. She was in one of the interrogation rooms at the PD; they hadn't taken her to the lab at all. Did they already have a suspect? She hadn't seen anyone there. Not when she had left, not when she had returned. There had only been that jogger she'd almost hit on the way out, and they'd gone around the corner before she'd even been down the street._

"_Sara."_

_She looked up. Sofia was there. She offered a smile, but it was a short one. She couldn't stop her teeth from chattering. She was so cold. She had given Catherine her clothes: they were evidence. She knew that, she had given them over willingly. She was in a tank top and someone else's sweat pants right now. She was rubbing her arms, trying to stay warm. Christ, she dressed like this all the time, why was it so cold tonight?_

_Sofia sat down beside her and took her hands in her own. _

"_Are you okay?"_

_Sofia was the first person to ask her that. Every one, herself included, had been too busy with the case to ask her that. She tried to nod, but couldn't. "I don't think so." Sofia rubbed her hands between her own. Jesus, the woman was hot, like a walking furnace, or maybe she was just cold. Somewhere, in her overeducated mind, the words shock and trauma sounded off, but the fog was still too thick around her brain to acknowledge them. _

_'We're going to find who did this, Sara. I swear I'll make this right."_

_Then the woman pulled her into a hug. Sara could hear her whispering as she held her close. "Thank God, you're okay."_

_Sara wanted to tell her everything. How it was her fault. If she hadn't left, he would be okay too. She didn't, though. She just leaned against Sofia and for just a moment, she felt warm again._

Sara shook off the memories and started reading. By the time the lights went out, she hadn't read it a hundred times, but it came close. She gripped the letter, the last of Sofia's letters she would ever be receiving, as she drifted off to sleep in the dark. The last letter she would ever get. Maybe this time when she penned her reply, she would send it. Sofia deserved something for the five years of light she'd brought to Sara's dark life. She deserved a goodbye.

Author's Note: Tina Collins is from Season One's_ Blood Drops_ and Melissa Winters is from Season Three's _One Hit Wonder._ Expect to see more familar faces as we go along, out of six years and some odd months, how many women did Sara help CSI put in jail? Fun-fun.


	6. Chapter V: Can't Outrun It

_Chapter V_

_Just When You Think You've Outrun It_

She didn't have to look at the calendar to know what day this was. It was some kind of sick anniversary. An anniversary that she would probably continue to mark every year. She couldn't remember the exact day she and Eddie had gotten married, but she would never forget the day she had walked onto a scene and found her best friend and mentor dead. In three days time, she would begin marking another, equally dark, date. The day Sara Sidle paid for what she did. The woman's execution date was looming and Catherine couldn't say she felt an ounce of empathy for the woman. She was a murderer and she deserved to die, period.

Yet, she sighed, there was _more_ to it than she'd like to admit. Sara's unwavering insistence that she was innocent, the years they had spent working together, the other woman's words from so, so many years ago: "I could never take a life." If she closed her eyes, she could still hear Sara's screams.

_January 2007_

_It seemed as though Sara had aged years in a few days. She looked so frail in the orange clothes they'd issued her at County Lock Up. _

"_One last time, Sidle. This is your last chance." _

Sara stared blankly at the DA for only a moment, and then her big brown eyes turned to Catherine. "Why are you doing this?"  
Catherine didn't even blink. "Better question, why are you?" Handcuffed and shackled to the table, Sara only shook her head, though Catherine knew the woman probably wanted to pace. To rant and rave. To attack. "You called me. Tell them you called me, Catherine." She could hear something in the other woman's voice, desperation. Even though she had heard many criminals make excuses and lie, do or say anything to escape jail time, she had never expected it from Sara. Of course, she had never expected Sara to stab Gil, the man she claimed to love, in the chest. It hurt. She wasn't sure why, or she dared not admit it, not even to herself, but it hurt so badly she could barely breathe. Gil had been, well he was **Gil**, but now he was gone. Part of her wanted to scream that it **couldn't** have been Sara. It just wasn't possible. The evidence, however, said otherwise. Sara's fingerprints, Sara's DNA, blood on Sara's clothes. She'd had the motive and opportunity, and had no alibi. No alibi but for the one that just didn't play out.

"_You called me, Cath. You all but begged me to come to some crime scene that never existed. I left Gil's townhouse to go to you. Why are you lying about it?"_

_  
She wasn't lying. She had made no such call. She had been at the lab with Nick and Greg running evidence on the Desert Drive Hit and Run. She hadn't even given a thought to Gil or Sara until she'd been called to the crime scene. Hell, she hadn't even made the connection between the address and Gil's townhouse until she'd gotten there. Why was Sara doing this? The more Sara insisted, the madder Catherine became. Sara had **killed** Gil and now she wanted her help in covering it up. _

"_The only one lying here is you, Sara. Did he say it was over? Did he break your clandestine little relationship off? Was there even a relationship to begin with? He said 'no' and you got mad. You got mad so you hurt him. You killed him, Sara." Her voice was white hot, like molten steel, and every statement hit home. Sara flinched and jerked, but caught herself. "We argued, but it didn't go that far. We..." She sighed, "We made up before I left..." Red tinged up in Sara's face._

_  
She had killed him, but was embarrassed to admit to sleeping with him. Typical Sara Off-The-Deep-End-Bullshit. "BULLSHIT!" She slapped her palms on the table. "There was no phantom phone call; there was no other person in that house. **You** were the only one there and **you** did it." _

_Sara had never been given to tears, Catherine didn't think she'd ever seen the brunette truly cry. The tears that were overflowing her eyes and falling down her cheeks were theatric. Hollywood had missed one hell of an actor. She even pitched her voice right, low and gravely. "Why are you doing this to me?" The image burnt itself into Catherine's memory, whether she wanted it to or not: Sara, with her handcuffed hands upturned, her face pale and her dark eyes big. "Why?" For a moment, she saw something there. Not a hardened criminal, not a murderer, but a lost child. It was the same child she had been catching glimpses of for years. As always, though, the lost child was replaced with an angry woman. "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?!" Sara couldn't stand, could barely move, but her words could cut through diamond. "I **love** him. I didn't hurt him; I didn't k-kill him. The murderer is still out there! Canvass, rerun the evidence, check the perimeter. You're a CSI! You KNOW I didn't do this! Why the HELL are you doing this, Catherine?" She jerked her wrists, straining at her bounds; the movements were that of barely restrained violence. "FIND THE PERSON WHO DID THIS!" _

_Catherine shook her head, "I'm looking right at her._

_She walked out of the room, but she could hear Sara behind her._

"_TELL THEM, DAMN IT! TELL THEM CATHERINE!"_

She pushed her hands through her hair. God, it still hurt. The loss, the bold faced betrayal, the fall out. She hadn't just lost Gil that night. Nick had left not long after the trial ended. He had needed space and she supposed there was a lot of that in Texas. Greg had… well, he had taken the whole ordeal hard, worse than hard. He'd still been half-in-love with Sara. It had all happened so soon after the Demetrius James mess. She shook her head. The past. The past, all of that was in the past. She lived in the here and the now.

* * *

The here and the now included a lanky blonde who spoke in a mysterious language of petrabytes and holo-imaging. Keith towered over her at six foot and eight inches, but he was all bones, pale skin, piercing and tattoos. His pale white-blonde hair, done in dread locks, a look that shouldn't have looked half as good as they did on him, fell in his eyes and he pushed it away. He might have made a great basketball player for some greedy NBA team, but the man was a menace to himself, often tripping over his own feet. He was, though, their resident computer genius. "I thought you might want to be present when I enter the commands that will usher this lab into a new era of awesomeness." Catherine couldn't help but chuckle. "All right, _Mr. Wizard_, wow me." The young man blinked and scratched at the pentagram tattooed on his neck, "Mr. Who?" Catherine sighed, "Just, do your thing." They swept into the AV lab and Catherine was vaguely surprised to find that half the lab was already there: CSIs and techs. Even Dr. Zane Hare, who had replaced Robbins in the Morgue, was there, leaning against the wall, looking sexy, surly and very New York suave. There was Gillian and Fawn, shooting daggers at each other from across the room. It was an infuriating situation, half the time the two women were at each other's throats and the other half of the time, they were an unbeatable team. She made a mental note to talk to them, separately, and try to get them to act at least civilly towards each other.

Keith sat in his "master chair" and whirled around. He couldn't walk down the hall without hitting a door edge or falling over his own untied laces, but here he was perfectly at home; with a computer the man had a strange sort of grace. "All right, Ladies, Gentlemen...and Scooter." He grinned widely, "My blood sweat and tears are about to pay off." He cracked his knuckles like a melodramatic pianist and began to work his magic. The large, flat screens flickered to the LVPD Shield and there was a gentle hum. Keith had just about raised his arms in victory when something obviously unexpected occurred. Red boxes popped up.

WARNING!

ERROR!

CORRUPT FILE!

If it was possible, the moon-tanned computer geek went even paler and began to tap and touch frantically.

"C'mon, Baby, don't do this to Daddy."

The screen flickered to old programs that hadn't been used in years, bits of old clips and bits of cases long solved. Garbled audio screeched out of the streamlined speakers along the edge of the screens. Most of it was no where near understandable. He tapped frantically, his not-so-legal hacking skills probably aiding him.

Something, she didn't know exactly what, made the little hairs on the back of her neck stand in attention. She'd grown to trust her instincts over the years, and her instincts were all but screaming one thing. Figure this all out and do so quickly. She frowned, "Everyone out, now. Let's let David Copperfield work his magic in private." She pointedly ignored one of the tech's whispered, "David Who?"

They went out, but something was nagging at her. One look at Warrick confirmed that he too had heard it. She wasn't crazy; she _had_ heard her own voice in the garbled mess that had spewed forth from the computer. She rubbed at her forehead, pushing her fingers through her blonde bangs. She didn't need this right now.


	7. Chapter VI: Final Hours

_Chapter VI_

_Final Hours_

The room was bare but for a table and two chairs. Everything was bolted down, including herself. No chances were taken in the meeting rooms. Lawyers were apparently people too, and the Penitentiary couldn't risk an incident with them, not since the 2008 Riots.

Across from Sara sat her Attorney, Lexine Verona. She and Lexi went back a very long way. Sara had been a Coroner's Assistant, Lexi had been a Public Defender, and the rest was history. On the outside they had very little in common. Sara was a white Cali Girl, while Lexi was a proud black woman with a heavy accent that screamed 'Born and Bred in Brooklyn'. The fact that she had flown across the country and taken the Nevada Bar, defended her in an impossible case and continued to appeal for and advise her, all out of her own pocket, at the drop of a hat, though, showed how much respect the two women had for each other.

"How've you been?" Sara shrugged, "I've been all right." A scowl was the only reply, "I've looked through your file. Nineteen more incidents and we're not even through the fiscal year yet." Sara jerked her shoulder, "What can I say, I'm popular?" The other woman snorted. "Three broken ribs, eight stab wounds, six of them needing stitches, and a dozen overnight stays in the infirmary, am I missing anything here?" Sara pursed her lips for a moment, "Knowing you, probably not." The lawyer sat down in the chair. Neither of them wanted to address the large pink elephant in the corner, but one of them had to. "I could file a..." Sara shook her head, and had her hands not been handcuffed to the table, she would have reached out and touched the other woman's arm. "Don't. We both know it's futile. Just putting off the inevitable."

Lexine crossed her arms and posed in her classic fighting stance. "Futile, my ass." The problem with Lexi was that she wasn't just Sara's lawyer, she was her friend. Most of the time it was a plus, as Sara generally hated lawyers (especially sleazy criminal defense lawyers), but it was also a problem. She wasn't just another client for Lexi, it was too personal for the other woman. Sara knew all about taking cases too personally, all it did was leave a scar when everything was said and done. "Lexi, please. As my attorney, I have two requests of you." The woman opened her leather bound notebook and raised her monogrammed fountain pen to make a note on the crisp, blank paper. "In my personal possessions, there is a box of...erm...letters." She could feel her face growing hot. "After I'm...After it's...When it's all said and done, I want you to deliver them for me." For a moment, Lexi looked confused, something that didn't happen often. Then understanding cut across her face. "I'll take them all to Lieutenant Curtis for you." Sara nodded, and if that choked her up, she didn't know how she was going to get through the next part.

"And." She could feel her throat closing up on her. "I...Lex...I don't want you in the Observation when it happens. In fact, I'm forbidding it." She could see the outrage bubble up in the other woman's dark eyes, "And I expect you to make sure that Sofia isn't there either."

* * *

She had known Sara for a very long time. To see her, thin, pale and so broken hurt her. It just wasn't like Sara to bend over and take it. "I can file a motion! Damn it, Sara! It's only been five years; I can get you twenty more. I can have this shit so tied and backed up that you'll die of natural causes long before a needle comes near you." She got up and paced. "The PI we hired has enough circumstantial evidence to get an inquiry. With today's technology, we could get the case reopened. We can prove you innocent, Sara. Don't give up on me!"

Sara only shook her head. "You always forget that I used to play for the White Hats, Lex. The evidence is weak; hell, it's beyond weak. I would have torn through it in a night. So you think Catherine will do any less?" How Sara could utter Catherine Willows' - her own personal Judas - name without screaming, she didn't know. "FUCK CATHERINE WILLOWS!" She paced the tiny room like a tiger, mostly because she couldn't stand to sit and listen to Sara calmly talk about being executed any more. "_I'll_ tear through Catherine Willows. She was biased against you. Too close to the cast to have worked it. Mis-trial. I could file for a mistrial. I could string that damn lab up by its toenails. As your lawyer..."

Sara's frighteningly calm voice cut through her rant. "As my friend, I'm asking you to step away and cut your losses."

Sara Sidle was many things, but she wasn't a murderer and she _was not_ a loss. "You are not a lost cause, Sara. I belive in you. _She_ believes in you." It was a low blow, she knew, throwing Sofia Curtis in Sara's face, but desperate times called for desperate measures. "Do you think she's been writing to you all this time for her _health_?" Brown eyes, weary and dark with a pain deeper than any well, met hers. "We're done, Lex. There won't be a miracle clue or a Governor's call. In twelve hours, I'll be dead. I trust you to spread my ashes, to finish my business, and that's all you can do now."

Frustration boiled up inside her. She could argue all day long with the woman, but her mind was made up. Nuclear bombs couldn't dislodge Sara from a decision when she was set on it. Lexine let her hands fall to the table and her head drop. "Fine."

She watched them take Sara back. Not to her own cell, though. Sara was on her final twelve. There was a concrete bunker and an executioner waiting on her. Weary, she walked down the halls, metal doors and gates clanging behind her as she went. There was a waiting room of sorts, and pacing off the small space was Lieutenant Sofia Curtis. The woman's stance was, at the same time, aggressive and hopeful. "Well?" She only shook her head. She saw the question coming. "No. They've already taken her back." Sofia uttered a weak curse and plowed her fingers through her lose blonde hair. "File a last minute motion. We can petition the Governor. We can get this thing put off." She felt the tug of Sofia's desperation, a twin to her own, and wanted to scream, 'Damn right we can!'. Lexine wanted to barge into the Governor's mansion and demand a stay. She wanted to file a dozen motions, already typed and ready to go in her briefcase. She wanted to do _something_. "She doesn't want that." Sofia stopped mid stride, her blue eyes blinking owlishly. "She, what?" Lexine sighed, "She _ordered_ me to leave the premises. I'm not to file one motion or pull any strings. We've talked about it before. In her own words, she wants me, well us, to go find a bar and lift a glass, but she doesn't want me and definitely not you here when it happens." She had worked with Sofia Curtis for five years, both in the united effort to free Sara. She saw the signs of the woman's internal struggle on her face, in her body language. Finally, she sighed, "If that's what she wants...I'll honor her wishes." The walk back out to the parking lot was one of the longest either woman had ever known.

* * *

She had told them fifteen times, she wasn't religious and she definitely wasn't Catholic. Nevertheless, Father Gregory was there to pray for her immortal soul. Lines from the Stephen King novel echoed in her mind as she walked down the seemingly unending hallway. She listened to the Priest's words with only half an ear. The only thing that stuck with her was his name. Greggory, Greg, Greggo; Greg Sanders had been one of her first true friends when she'd come to Las Vegas. She had read his last paper; it was good, smart, cutting edge. As she walked towards the room she'd perish in, she wondered. Would he be there? The thought chilled her to the bone. In the end, she supposed, one always went back to the beginning. They were the only family she would have claimed, but just like the Sidles, they too had betrayed her. Anger burned in the pit of her stomach, aggravating the ulcer that she had developed over the years. Shackled, but head held high, she was lead to the chamber.

* * *

She had never been to an execution in her career. It had been one of the things that she had, thankfully, been spared. The room was blindingly white and a single curtain hung, blocking the view of the room from the observation area.

She could hear her heart thundering in her chest as she sat on the padded bench. They moved her in to position, Velcro-ing her legs and arms down. She looked away when they put the IVs in her arm; not because she was ashamed or scared. Needles just made her nauseous. She didn't want to see her final meal, a vegetarian meal fit for a queen, again. They put the electrodes that would monitor her vitals on her chest. At one time, she might have felt prudish. She might have, though the male guard was enjoying a show. No more. All the man was seeing now was the sharp outline of her clavicles and sternum against her pale skin. Suddenly, the electronic ticking off of her heart beat joined the methodic tick of the clock on the wall. Five minutes to midnight. She had sent murderers to death row, plenty of them. Six of the two dozen or so had preceded her to the chamber. She wasn't a murderer, though. She didn't deserve this. She heard someone reciting why she was here. She had been framed for a murder she didn't commit, and what they would be doing, injecting her with poison until she died. Oh, yes and may God have mercy on her soul. Touching, really. Though she had told herself, hundreds of thousands of times, that she would not cry, she felt a tear streak down her cheek when they pulled the curtain back, revealing her to those in the observation room. She kept her eyes locked on the ceiling and began counting down.

The clock ticked off the seconds and she found herself remembering the good moments.

_The first time she'd stood up on her surf board: Her brother cheering her on, the wind in her hair, seven years old and perfectly happy._

_Graduating Harvard, top of her class._

_The first rape case she'd solved in San Francisco: Yasmin Delancy had gone on to become the West Coast's top Rape Counselor._

_Days in the park with Brenda Collins_

_Gil's quiet half-smiles_

_Sofia's smoky laugh._

* * *

The clock struck twelve, the sound was no different from every other tick, but it marked the end. Inside an adjacent room, a man in a lab coat with no name tag nodded to another.

It was time.

Author's Note: It's times like these I'm glad things can't be physically thrown at one through the internet.


	8. Chapter VII: Debugged

_Chapter VII_

_Debugged_

Three nights, countless hours, of work. He'd chased down every file. He'd gone over every system with a fine-toothed comb, electronically speaking of course. Keith Gannon, AKA Ashes2Ashes, knew his way around computers. He was a member of the team that had held the top spot at Def Con's hacking competition and had, when he was a teenager, faced off against such _legends_ as CerealKiller and Crash&Burn, and had trounced them without a wasted keystroke. He texted Catherine and was waiting, his feet on the counter, for her arrival. He'd found the file and had debugged it. It didn't make much sense to him, but he was sure the boss lady would know what to make of it. The whole thing was probably something of hers anyway. A lost bit of audio that had somehow or another been dumped to the computers back in Archie's hey-day. The computers, his babies each and every one of them, were humming and running smoothly. Every other lab rat was scurrying, trying to cut into the backlog that had collected during the upgrade.

About five minutes before midnight, Catherine breezed in. "You get it?" He nodded and swiveled around in his chair, dropping his feet as he went. "Yes, ma'am." He tapped the inlaid plasma screen to bring up the familiar keyboard image. His fingers flew across the keys, "It took me a while; it was pretty fragmented and hidden behind some old files." He frowned, "As far as I can tell, the program was part of a virus." He watched Catherine Willow's fair eyebrow wing up. Most everyone knew that this was an early sign of trouble. He should have been ducking and covering, but he continued. "Uh-huh. It's sort of weird, actually. It's non-aggressive, and it's not feeding anything out of the system. It was just...waiting." Catherine looked over his shoulder, "Waiting?" He pulled up the program. "Yeah, it was time-released. I found it before it was unlocked. It was, and I swear on a stack of Bibles, programmed to release tonight at midnight." Catherine looked at her watch, and for a moment was quiet. "It's just after." As there was a digital display on the wall telling the time in all of the American time zones, that was obvious. "Yeah. Anyway. It's an audio clip. It's actually ingenious. Someone laid pieced together, a conversation using recorded clips, almost flawlessly. The call was placed to a Vegas number and routed through the computer lab here." The terse tapping of Catherine's high heeled shoe signaled him to continue, quickly. "The whole thing was recorded and saved, this is what we got." He hit the sequence of keys and for a moment there was static, then two voices began speaking.

A voice from beyond a fresh grave, those were her first thoughts.

"_Sidle."_

"_Sara-Thank God."_

"_Catherine?"_

"_Sara I need your help."_

"_Cat? Is everything okay? Oh God, is Lindsey okay?"_

"_Yeah. It's just. I need you down at this crime scene...please."_

"_I...of course."_

Catherine blinked once, twice, three times. That was her voice, she couldn't deny it. That was her voice, but she'd never had this conversation.

"_Where are you?"_

"_712 Crestview Drive... The Over View Motel, Room 31."_

"_I'm on my way. Catherine, is it...is it a rape victim?"_

Catherine heard herself chuckle rather darkly.

"_I'm fine. I just need some help, that's all."_

"_Okay."_

The phone call ended, and the strength fell out of Catherine's legs. She sat, rather weakly, on a stool. Her mouth was dry, as parched as the desert that surrounded the city. She could hear the fluorescent lights above her buzzing. She could smell Keith's overpowering cologne. She couldn't seem to remember how to breathe, though.

At the door, Gillian and Fawn were asking her something. The younger women's voices were distant and fuzzy, as though it was coming from a weak AM radio signal.

"Are you okay, Catherine, you look sort of pale." Gillian came closer, "Your case go sour or something?"

Reality settled in like a wet wool blanket. "Timestamp, Keith. Is there a timestamp?" The blonde man frowned and hit a couple of keys. "Yeah, the program was uploaded around two-ish on January the fourth in...wow, 2007. The call wasn't made, though, until around nine forty-two that night. It went out to..." She stopped him halfway through his recitation of the number. "Jesus. Oh Jesus."

Was it a coincidence? Was it fate? Was it too late?

She grabbed at her cell phone, a gut wrenching panic ripping through her.

She had to know and she had to know now.

* * *

Fawn, more then a little concerned for the woman who had taught her almost everything she needed to know about being a good CSI, looked over Keith's shoulder. Not only was the evidence unfamiliar to her, the program was too. It looked old, like it had missed a few updates here and there. While she was no Keith, she was no slouch in the realm of computers. "What the hell is this?" Keith, who towered over her, shrugged, "I don't know yet. That's Catherine's voice, but I have no idea who the hell the other woman is. I mean who the hell is Sara Sidle?" 

Not believing what was coming out of the man's mouth, she looked him dead on. "You're kidding." One bony had pushed dreads out of his face. "Um no. She must have been before my time or something." Fawn shook her head, "Sara Sidle was the woman who killed Gilbert Grissom. Surely you know that story." He shrugged, "Sounds familiar, I thought that was some kind of weird office romance gone wrong sort of a thing though." Fawn nodded, her eyes straying across the room where Gillian had a hand on Catherine's shoulder, trying to comfort the obviously upset woman. "Yeah, it was something like that. They executed her tonight; it's all the news has been talking about."

Author's Note: More then a few of you guessed it, the phone call was faked. Catherine has uncovered a vital clue but is it too late?

(Cue the suspense music)

Oh, before I forget, slight allusion to the movie _Hackers _thrown in there.


	9. Chapter VII: Because I Did Not Stop

_Chapter VIII_

_Because I Did Not Stop For Death_

Seconds stretched into eternity. Would there be pain or would she simply just stop? Nothing had changed. Her heart was still thundering, she was still breathing, and she was still alive. Breaking her own self-imposed rule, she looked to her right, at the clock. Six minutes past the hour. Surely something should have happened by now. Or was this part of the execution - the long drawn out stress of knowing one was about to die. The second hand continued to tick and she continued to breathe.

The door opened and the guards came in. She looked at them, craning her neck as far as her bonds would allow. Was this some kind of joke? She'd heard of gallows humor, but this was going a tad far. "Congratulations, Sidle. The Governor called for you. Looks like you won't be singing with the Angels tonight." They started unstrapping her. Without much warning, she lurched to her right, turning as sharply as she could. She wasn't trying to escape and she wasn't having a seizure from poison. She was vomiting up everything that she had eaten. She didn't know if they'd pulled the curtain again, and frankly she didn't care, let them watch her puke. The guards, saints that they were, stepped back and let her get down to dry heaving before they started to put her shackles back on.

She heard the muffled complaints of someone, they hated cleaning up vomit. Between vomit and a dead body, one would think they'd prefer the vomit. Words rang in her ears foggily. Her execution had been stayed. She was alive. She was still alive.

* * *

The news flashed on the television over the bar. She and Lexine had done more than lift a drink in her memory, they were both well on their way to being completely trashed. Sofia blearily looked up from her gin and tonic when the overly perky newscaster came on. _"News from Carson City tonight. The execution of Sara Sidle, convicted of the 2007 slaying of her boss and lover Gilbert Grissom, has been stayed this evening. Channel Five could not reach Governor Silvers for comment, but the representative from the Las Vegas Crime Lab had this to say." _

Sofia drained her drink. On one hand she was elated. The impossible had happened, Sara was still alive. There was still a chance. On the other hand, she was disgusted. Conrad Ecklie was preaching his spiel. The man had hated both Sara and Gil Grissom with a passion that he had for little else save power. There he was, though, acting as though he had been Grissom's best buddy.

"_I think all we really want is closure for Gil."_

She looked to her left, where Lexine was already on the phone. The New Yorker's voice was slurring a bit from one too many martinis, but there was no mistaking the hope making its way into her accented words.

For herself, there was a burning in her gut that wasn't due to alcohol. Her first instinct was to run back to the penitentary, her second was to storm the PD and find out exactly what had caused the stay. Cooler heads, mostly Lexine having her wrist in a death-grip, kept her seated, though.

* * *

Warrick watched Catherine all but collapse into her desk chair. Her elbows propped on the desk, she looked at him. "You saw it?" He nodded; his world was spinning around him. He wasn't sure what it meant, not exactly, but he knew what it was.

"The Phantom Phone Call. She had an accomplice."

Catherine pushed her hands through her bangs. "Yeah. Yeah or she was telling the truth the entire time."

Five years of absolute belief was quickly falling out from underneath her. It was like someone had ripped the carpet out from beneath her two feet. He could try to catch her, but he was feeling a little disoriented himself.

"This is nothing. Blood evidence, DNA evidence, motive, opportunity, it's all there, Cath."

Blue eyes were glazed over. "The execution was stayed."

He rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn't sure how that was supposed to make him feel. "Is her lawyer opening the case back up?" Catherine shook her head. "No. No, but I'm starting to think maybe we should, 'Rick."

What was he supposed to say to that?

Five years ago, his entire world had been turned upside down. He and Sara, they had laughed together, worried together, worked at each other's elbows. He had thought he'd known her. He could clearly recall her arguing with him about spontaneous combustion and rappelling down a cliff for a dead body. She had been a CSI, and she had been his friend.

The evidence had told her that she was a murderer. He'd told the court the same when he'd testified against her. Even today, he could still see her. Sitting there, on the wrong side of the room, in her charcoal gray suit, watching him. She hadn't cried, but her big brown eyes had been full of hurt. The guilt still squirmed in his gut. All the excuses he'd made - she had investigated him and had not once but twice, filed a less than sterling report on him - fell flat. He should have had her back, but hadn't. Evidence or not, his heart had always told him that Sara Sidle hadn't killed Griss.

"I'll get started on the paper work."

* * *

Jim Brass watched the screen in front of him and sighed. Retired now, he still kept a police scanner on the bookshelf. Old habits, he supposed, died hard. He shuffled, to the kitchen, and poured himself a stiff drink.

Gil had been a friend, a damn good friend. He wouldn't have trusted the man with his power of attorney if he hadn't been. The thing was, though. He had trusted Sara Sidle with something else, something a little more powerful. He had given the young woman his heart. Not in a romantic way, though. No, she was like a daughter to him. He downed the drink and began to pour another. Another Ellie.

Seeing Sara, half hysterical and covered in blood. That had hurt. That image, above all others, haunted him. He had seen slain babies, he had seen more slaughtered bodies and horror movie scenes than he'd like to remember, but it was Sara that made him stay up for nights at a time, self medicating and watching bad infomercials.

"_You believe me, don't you Jim?"_

_She was in that orange jumpsuit and he could tell she'd already lost weight. She had always been thin, now she looked gaunt, like a slowly fading terminal patient. Her brown eyes, the ones that always showed what she was truly feeling, despite what her mouth said, were big and locked onto his._

"_You know I didn't do this." _

_He nodded, "I know, kid. I know."_

_The look of relief on her face cut into him worse than any knife or bullet ever had._

_He was lying through his teeth, but the look on her face was worth it._

His fingers itched to pick up the phone. Would they be reopening the case? Knowing how cops thought, how the process worked, that would be a question weighing heavily on everyone's mind.

Was this just the Governor pussying out, a defense attorney stall tactic or something more?

Author's Note: There's a great deal of Anti-Catherine sentiment floating around. Usually, I'm at the lead of that particular parade, but wow. The worst part is, I haven't even showed her with her full-throttle bitch on. One of these days I'm going to write a nice Catherine...eventually.


	10. Chapter IX: Just Beneath The Surface

****

_Chapter IX_

_Just Beneath The Surface_

With practically city wide wireless internet access and cell phones that were nothing but an earpiece and a quarter sized pin-on microphone, the office grapevine was still faster. By the next night, the lab was buzzing about one subject and one alone. Lies, betrayal, murder, a stayed execution, it had all the components of a blockbuster movie and it was playing out in front of them. Second and third hand retellings of the case and its players were being exchanged like baseball cards on a playground.

Catherine tried to ignore it, she really did. The Governor had stayed the execution, but would not publicly announce why. The fact that Sara had been on the team that had saved his niece from a politically driven kidnapping situation might have had something to do with it. In fact, Catherine was sure it did. Julius Silvers was from the old school, he had been, in his own way, repaying a debt. As he couldn't be re-elected and had no ambitions to move on, Catherine supposed that it had been a pretty easy decision to make. Spare the woman who had saved a little girl, and he could go to sleep with a clean conscience.

Much easier than the one that was facing her.

Could she reopen the case on what she had? She looked at the report on the screen in front of her. Keith had analyzed the bit of audio seven ways from Sunday. It _had_ been her voice: bits and pieces of her voice stolen from here and there, probably from her cell phone. Eliminating the sound of her voice the background noise appearing to constantly jump around and was garbled. When her voice was there, though, it was unnoticeable. Her voice had been a little jerky, but considering what the conversation had been about, it had probably come off as emotional and a little nervous, but not fake. Hell, if she hadn't known any better _she_ would have thought that it had been a genuine call.

Did that make Sara innocent? Her alibi that said she had gone to Catherine's imaginary crime scene had never held water, but now... Catherine sighed and looked at the bookshelf. There was a picture there: Nick, Warrick, Gil and herself, someone had snapped it one day. One day before the name Sara Sidle had ever echoed down the lab's hall. She knew what was under it, though. She couldn't see it, but if she opened the frame, it would be there.  
Christmas 2006, all of them had gone to a crappy restaurant way off the strip. There had been laughter, cheap wine and the only argument had been over how to split the check. Gil, Jim, Doc Robbins, Greg, Nick, Wendy Simms, herself, Warrick, Sofia Curtis and yes, Sara Sidle, they had all been crammed in this big corner booth, some of them all but sitting on each other's laps. If she thought about it, she could still remember the conversations. Sara and Nick bickering about Sara's vegetarianism; Gil, Jim and Al had all been talking about some old band that she had hardly remembered herself. It had all been so normal, so perfect. She had hidden it away. Pushed the memory of Sara Sidle and her presence out of the lab. It was still there, though, in the lab rat's whispered gossip. She could be covered up, but the memory would always be there, just beneath the surface.

Time had eased the fury, she no longer want to rip the other woman's eyes out. Was this enough, though? She bit her lower lip. It would have been enough for Gil. She picked up the stylus and put her electronic John Hancock on the screen. It was good enough for her. The Grissom Murder Case was, barring the Sheriff's signature, officially reopened.

* * *

Gillian frowned, "Why are we down here again, boss? All the records are electronic and Keith's got the entire system running like an Olympic triathlon competitor." Catherine chuckled, "The file we're getting predates Keith's genius system." She watched the other CSI look around at the dull gray filing cabinets with a clear look of disdain. "What, are we reopening the Kennedy Assassination or something?" Catherine rolled her eyes, "You weren't even born when that happened." The much taller woman shrugged and ran a finger along the top of the filing cabinets. "Eeww." She brought her hand down for Catherine's inspection. "These things are filthy." Catherine, her fingers skimming along the numerically marker cards on the drawer doors, laughed, "Well no one but you can see up there, so it doesn't bother us." 

She found the correct drawer, simply labeled, Case Numbers 73109 – 75012. She opened the drawer and the rarely disturbed hinges and rollers squeaked in protest. "Now all we have to do is find the case number." Gillian quirked her head, "Right. Hundreds of old files, half of them probably misplaced and we're looking for just one." Catherine nodded, already flipping through the folders. "Case 73872." Gillian pushed her thick braid back, "Great."

An hour later, Gillian sneezed for what seemed like the umpteenth time and threw up her hands. "That's it. I've gone through this drawer with a fine toothed comb, Cath, and it's not here." She saw it play out on Catherine's face, annoyance tearing her already thin patience to shreds. "What? Some one just waltzed in here and left with it?" Gillian shrugged but before she could say anything, she was beaten to the verbal punch.

"Yes, actually."

She looked up and followed the long shadow to the door of the storage room. Recognition took a minute, but it came. Even if it hadn't, though, Catherine's half uttered curse, which was quickly followed up by a less than warm and fuzzy greeting, might have tipped her off.

"Lieutenant Curtis."

She had heard, through the grapevine, that Catherine and Sara Sidle had been famous for their 'The Apocalypse is surely upon us' arguments. Gillian couldn't imagine them being any worse than the hate and spite filled fights she'd seen between her boss and Lieutenant Sofia Curtis of the Cold Case Squad.

"Willows."

While she wasn't known for backing down, she and Fawn Drex had been known to go a few rounds now and again, Gillian Rayne suddenly and reverently wished that she were somewhere else, even a nuclear test sight. It would have probably been a far safer place to be, fewer fall-outs.

Catherine stood up straight and stuck her classic, 'I-don't-take-shit-from-anyone' pose. She crossed her arms over her chest and arched up one eyebrow. "What are you doing here, Curtis?" The room was icier than the waters where the Titanic had sank and Leo DiCaprio had earned Silver Screen Immortality.

As if she'd known it would add salt to Catherine's open paper-cuts, Curtis held up a slightly weathered folder, complete with the department logo and 'Closed' stamped on it. "I have the file."

The North Atlantic? Had that been what Gillian had thought? Oh, now they were somewhere far warmer, say the Lake of Fire and Brimstone. Catherine's blue eyes became alive with unholy flames and she stepped forward, her hand held out, demanding the file. "And just what do _you_ think you're doing with _my_ file?" A slight smile, or something disturbingly like one, flittered across Lieutenant Cutis's features. "Check your jurisdiction, Willows. This is _my_ case. Stay out this."

"The hell it is."

* * *

They had never had a good relationship, she and Sofia. She might not have been the Ecklie-Ass-Kisser she'd once accused her of being, but Sofia Curtis, Lieutenant or not, was a pain in her ass. She had been supremely pleased when the infuriating woman had transferred to Cold Cases. Cold Cases were usually low priority, so she rarely saw the other woman. The final and irrevocable rift in their professional relationship had come, not surprisingly, during the Sidle Case. The file of which, Sofia had in her grasp. 

"Sara's case is cold and last time I checked that's right up my alley."

Catherine couldn't help it, she sneered at her, "Only because you couldn't _hack_ _it_ in Homicide without Jim leading you by the hand." She watched Sofia's face grow hard and the hand that wasn't holding the thick file, clench into a fist. "Besides, you can't have _this_ case; it's a conflict of interests." Sofia shook the blow off, "Pot, kettle, color, sound familiar? If I have a conflict, so do you, Willows."

"Tipps is already on it." That was a lie, a boldfaced one, but if it got Curtis to hand over the file, it was more than worth it. Sofia only smirked, "And Drex generally handles cold cases, she is the expert on the subject, it looks like we're both pulling rank tonight. Everyone knows you're a glory hound. I knew you wouldn't let any of your team take it from you. Some things never change."

Unwilling to let the shot go un-parried, Catherine came right back at her. "Why do you have the file on a case that's only been reopened for two hours, anyway? A little work to take home with you at night?" Sofia chuckled, "It's been _officially_ open for two hours, but _unofficially_ this case has been in my desk drawer, unsolved for five years."

Catherine raised her other brow, but said nothing.

Sofia had always been convinced of Sara's innocence.

_January 2007_

"_Catherine, you can't be serious. She needs to go to Desert Palms, she's in shock." Desperate for a drink of something far stronger then coffee, she looked at the blonde detective. "She's covered in blood, her DNA and fingerprints are everywhere, including the murder weapon, and you want to pat her on the head and coddle her? She killed Gil."  
Like flipping a switch, she saw Sofia's face go from unreadable to enraged. "She did not kill him and every second we waste here is another second the perp gets to run." They squared off, no one else speaking. "You really do live in a fairy tale land, don't you, Curtis? Let me lay it out for you. I'll make sure to use little words and simple phrases since you **washed out** as a CSI. Sidle-stabbed-Gil-until-he-died. Is that simple enough for you?" She stalked to the side and pulled out her digital camera, with a flick she had it on, "Or do you need to see pictures?"_

_Sofia stood, stoically still and silent for a moment, "You're going to regret this." Catherine dug her fingernails into her palm so hard that she could feel blood begin to prickle up. "Is that a threat?" Sofia shook her head, "No. No, that's a promise. She's your friend, you should be behind her. You were behind Warrick, Nick, and Greg and even Gil. Why aren't you supporting Sara when she needs you? Do you hate her that much, Catherine?" _

_She didn't even take the time to weigh out her words. "I do now."_

_Sofia shook her head, "Then you're a bigger bitch than I ever gave you credit for." She walked back towards the door to the interrogation room. "I'll be with Sara if you need me."_

_Catherine watched her open the door. "Don't worry, we won't."_

Author's Note: Not the Catherine-Sofia brawl some of you violence junkies were hoping for, but there's still plenty of story left to go. Lots of thanks to everyone who have reviewed, you guys rock!


	11. Chapter X: Like Carrier Pidgeons

_Chapter X_

_Like a Carrier Pigeon_

Los Angeles, California

Across hundreds, even thousands, of miles a carrier pigeon would always find its way home. Nick had told him that once. At the time, he had rolled his eyes and muttered something about watching too much Discovery Channel. Now, though he would never admit it to the man's face, he understood the subtle metaphor of what Nick had been saying. The instinctual tug back towards Vegas came before Channel 12 broke the story about the stayed execution and the reopening of the case. He had sensed it, and if he took his grandmother's route, he would say he had foreseen it.

It was all he could think about on his drive into work. Any time you weren't totally focused on LA morning traffic, you were begging for trouble. He got off the expressway an exit early and drove through the urban sprawl of Los Angeles. This wasn't the glittering, palm tree lined Hollywood-envisioned LA either. Every corner came with its very own prostitute and dealer. His hands tightened on the wheel as he passed them. At an interminably long red light, he watched a dealer, sporting a gang tattoo, sell a nickel bag of smack to a kid who probably didn't even have a learner's permit yet. It was disgusting, and yet it was horribly familiar. He made this drive every day to remind himself that this had come very close to being his world.

There had been a time when he would have done anything to get his next hit. Heroine, morphine, speed, anything to get away from the blinding pain that was withdrawal and reality. Grissom's death and Sara's betrayal had left this void inside of him and it hurt. At first, he had started drinking, and that had been okay. Everyone was dealing with the situation in their own way. Hell, he'd heard that Sofia had been forced to switch jobs because she couldn't handle the memories. Alcohol had stopped dulling the edges, though. One night, one year to the day after it had all happened, he'd found solace in a line of cocaine. His higher brain told him that it was bad, but it had felt so very good. He'd gone back again and again, trying to reach that nexus away from the daily reminders of the woman he'd loved, the man who had taught him everything he knew, and the bloody scene they had found them in. He'd been so sure he was in control, though.

When Catherine had questioned him, he'd told her nothing was wrong and when she confronted him, he'd rebelled against her. It had only been when Warrick had found a few grams of cocaine in his locker that things had really started to fall apart. Most of it was hazy, lost in a drug-induced amnesia, but he was pretty sure he had sucker punched Warrick. His memories were mostly second hand, but the scuffle had turned into a full-blown fight and somehow, Catherine had caught the wrong side of his elbow with her face.

He'd been fired the next day and at the time that had probably been the best thing for him. It had taken two more months of self-loathing, self-pitying, and self-medicating in the worst way, to see the light. An overdose would do that to you.

Now, three and a half years later, he was clean and a constant fixture in the local Narcotics Anonymous and he was slowly rebuilding his career. He was damn lucky, and he knew it, to have his job at the Metro Los Angeles Crime Lab. He had scoured the country for months, receiving what seemed like a hundred 'No's before Trent Culver had taken a risk and taken him on to his team. It was that man Greg was going to see now.

He walked down the hallway, offering a greeting here or a 'How's your wife' there, but didn't pause. Pausing would be hesitation and if he hesitated, he might just back out all together. He had to face this, though. Avoiding situations and not facing down his problems had been at the root of his turning to drugs. He had worked too hard to start down that path again.

He knocked on Culver's - the Lab's lead man and his direct supervisor - door. The gruff answer of "What?!" reminded him that he wasn't dealing with Catherine Willows or Gilbert Grissom. Trent Culver was a force unto himself. Greg opened the door and stepped into a slightly different world. One would have thought the view of the city behind him would be the first thing that caught one's eye around the office, but it wasn't. The slightly surreal painting of a strand of DNA, one that covered half of one wall, might have been another. Both were downplayed by the man himself. Trent Culver didn't look like a scientist. He looked like the front man for a heavy metal band. Thick muscles, a gleaming bald head and the aura of an animal that had been caged but not fully tamed, that was how most people perceived Culver. They were right.

"Sanders."

Greg sank his hands into his pockets. "I need a leave of absence." Culver didn't even bother to look up from the report he'd been reading. "Will a week be enough?" Greg had practiced his explanation, he had reasons and had been ready to argue. "Uh yeah. Don't you want to know why?" Culver finally looked up, focusing his laser green eyes on Greg. "I watch the news, I know your background, and last time I checked, it's my job to connect the dots. Sidle's stayed execution, the reopening of the case..." Meticulously organized, he pulled out a couple of papers. "They're all ready; they just need your signature." A little skeptical, Culver never let anyone go without an earful of some kind of lecture or insight. Greg plucked a pen out of the holder the man had on his desk and scrawled his name. Despite Culver's closed mouth tactics, Greg felt the need to explain himself. "I just need to be there."

Culver nodded and out of the blue, it began. "Did I ever tell you where I worked before coming to LA?" He might not quote long dead philosophers, but Culver was just as tricky as Grissom had ever been. Culver motioned for him to take a seat and he did so. "No, I don't think so." Culver got up from his chair and went to the wall. He took a framed picture from it and tossed it across the desk to him. It was a group portrait of some kind. Culver's precise handwriting in the bottom right hand corner proclaimed it to be from San Francisco, 1998. There was Culver, a little younger with more hair and slightly less attitude and on the other end of the group, looking much younger then he'd ever seen her, was Sara Sidle.

Though the point was moot, he looked up, "You know Sara." It was surprising how that had never come up in the two years of them working together. Culver sat back down and took the picture back. He gazed at it for a moment, his expression unreadable. "I knew Sara about as well as anybody can know her. You know what I mean?" Greg nodded, of course he knew. "I offered to testify on her behalf," Was there some kind of accusation there? "But she refused, of course." Greg felt a smirk coming across his face. "Sounds like her." Culver put the picture down and looked him dead in the eye again. "When I read your application, I saw that you worked with her. Let me be clear on this, Sanders. Her high opinion of you and your skills are the only reasons I took a chance on you. A stint in rehab is a heavy thing and it's not something a lab particularly wants on its sheet." Greg nodded; he knew that. About twenty major labs had turned him down. "So I owe her my job?" Culver returned to his work, "You owe her a lot of things, Sanders." He took the papers Greg had just signed, "If you hurry, Delta has a flight to Vegas leaving in two hours."

* * *

Mesquite, Texas

(Just Outside of the Dallas-Fort Worth Metro Area)

He stared out at the open fields across from his home. He wasn't a rancher, he didn't own horses, but it was good to have them so close. It reminded him of home. Of course, home was only a short drive away now. It was not, though, thoughts of his family, that had his attention now. Nicholas Stokes was miles and years away from the here and the now.

A pair of slim arms looped around him from behind and a light voice tickled his ear. "Why so serious, Mr. Stokes?" Despite the heaviness of mind, he had to smile, "Well, Mrs. Stokes," He whirled his wife of three months around. "I've got a confession to make." Cobalt blue eyes narrowed, "It's that hussy down at the Lab isn't it? You've been having a red-hot affair with that airhead Medical Examiner." As Doctor Cori Dart-Stokes was the head of the Dallas-Fort Worth ME's office, he only smiled. "Yep. Made love to her all night last night and into the morning." She pecked him lightly on the lips. "You sure did. Now, what's going on?"

It had only gotten page six treatment, a couple of lines, but it was enough to let him know. The execution had been stayed and, according to the Associated Press, the LVPD had reopened the case.

"I have to take a trip. I have to go back to Vegas."

As his wife, and as a fringe member of Law Enforcement, Cori knew exactly what he was talking about. "I heard they reopened the case." He nodded, "Yeah, it's just some unfinished business I need to see to, that's all." They both knew that was a vast understatement. Cori pushed her blonde hair back out of her face. "What are you going to do, Nicky? You don't have any power there any more."

She was right, of course. His wife was rarely wrong and when she was, he was too intelligent to say so. "I don't know. I just need to be there, you know?" She probably didn't, but she loved him enough to try. "Do you want me to come with you?" He did, oh he did. "Yes, but, you can't."

The first time they'd met, he'd pissed off the ME by telling her that she couldn't lift a body. It had been a two hundred pound Dallas Cowboys reserve player. After a good verbal thrashing, a flexing of the muscles he'd underestimated, she'd told him to never again tell her what she could and could not do. The joke around the lab was that it had been love at first sight.

"Excuse me, and just why the hell can't I?" Her voice carried hints of her native Mississippi and lots of fire in it. He couldn't help but smile. "Because I need to know, no matter what happens there, I can come back here to you." In an instant, the fire dimmed in her eyes and she gave him a lopsided smile. "Damn it. How can you be so infuriating and so sweet at the same time?" He pulled her closer. "It's all apart of the Stokes Charm." She shook her head, "Sure." She pulled away from him, but kept their hands linked, "I guess I'll go pack you a bag, because God knows if I trust it to you, you'll pack those same old raggedy pants and those shirts that you think look good on you." He grumbled about her good naturedly, but the truth of it was, he thanked all the bright stars over Texas that she was his.

Author's Note: To quote my beta, it's the return of the prodigals (!). To answer the question before it's asked, no, I don't hate Greg. The Greggo rocks. On that same trian of thought, believe ot or not, I don't hate Grissom (hating GSR and hating Grissom are two very differint things) and I don't hate Catherine. No, really, I don't hate Catherine.


	12. Chapter XI: Breathe

_Chapter XI_

_Breathe_

The Nevada sun glared down and the air stood still making it feel about ninety five in the sparse patches of shade. She couldn't complain. In fact, Sara stood looking up at the sky, appreciating the warmth of the sun's rays on her face. She was supposed to be dead. The desert air filled her lungs and she inhaled as deeply as her lungs would allow, but she was still alive.

Lexi swore up and down that she had nothing to do with it. According to her, she had been three sheets to the wind in a dive off the strip. Since her usually clipped accent was still slurring, Sara was inclined to believe the woman. It made her smile a little bit; Lexine never had been able to hold her liquor well.

Behind her, she could hear the general ruckus of the yard. Someone was arguing about the weights. Her Spanish was a little rusty, but she knew what "Fuck You" sounded like. One of the other inmates called over to her, inviting her to join their team for the pick-up basketball game. Usually she would have hit the court, but today she had a great need to reflect and just breathe. She shook her head and the women found another player. Her execution hadn't been, for reasons unknown, rescheduled yet. That much she knew, because Warden Caleb Rhett had told her so.

God, she'd trade Rhett for Ecklie any day of the week. Rhett had washed out of the LVPD and had made it very plain that he was looking forward to the night she would die. Of course, she wasn't exactly a big fan of his either. Rhett let drugs, rape and murder go unpunished as long as he got a cut of the profits. He was no better than the women he ran roughshod over. She had weathered more than one of his "lectures". They usually consisted of old school billy clubs and days locked in solitary. Her first year had been a long line of visits to the infirmary and solitary. She'd learned her lesson. She kept her head down and her guard up. She didn't make noise or even try to rebel.

That was perhaps one of the things she hated the most about herself. She'd cowed down and had become the one thing she had promised she wouldn't become, a convict. In the beginning, she had decided that, though she was physically incarcerated, they would never break her. She had a mind of her own and a strong spirit. Somewhere, along the last five years, both of those had faded away. Not that she wasn't in control of her own mind. She was still, miraculously, sane. She could still spot a liar at twenty paces and, on several occasions, had outwitted her fellow inmates. Though the prison library was limited, she tore through every new book and magazine that came through, keeping abreast of new developments in technology, law, and forensics. Melissa joked that old habits died hard, though the ex-lawyer was just as bad about reading the newest Nevada Law Review as she was. It was seven shades of pathetic and they both knew it. It was her spirit, though, that had taken the brunt of the blow. She had become a good little inmate. Step here, go there, sleep now, eat this. Prison had broken everything that had come through the trial intact. Not that there had been much, standing trial for a murder she hadn't committed and being convicted had left her struggling to hold herself together.

_February 14, 2007_

"_CSI, Crime Scene Investigator. This is a person whose job is to use science and technology to **solve** murders. We rely on them, just like a police officer to protect and serve the people of Las Vegas and Clark County. Perhaps, that is why this crime is so heinous. Gilbert Grissom dedicated his life to those here in Las Vegas. He met people on the worst days of their lives and became the victim's last voice. He was stolen from this city, viciously cut down, and brutally murdered. Murdered by a woman he trusted. A woman he'd worked with for years; a woman that he had taken under his wing. Sara Sidle was also a CSI. She forgot her oath, to protect and serve; it went right out the window when she was slighted. This woman, who has been cited with drinking problems, authority issues and even violent outbursts, killed her mentor, her boss, her **friend,** in cold blood. The accused, Sara Sidle, stabbed Gil Grissom over twenty times. She killed him, there is no doubt, and there is no question. This woman who was supposed to protect **us**, is a ruthless killer. I **knew** Gil Grissom. He and I built countless cases to present in this very courtroom. Today, The Las Vegas DA's Office, the Las Vegas Police Department and yes, the Las Vegas Crime Lab, will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the defendant, Sara Sidle, murdered Gil Grissom, without one ounce of remorse."_

_Karl Jenkins, ADA for Clark County, took his seat, and Lexine Verona stood ready to deliver her own opening statement. _

"_CSI, Mr. Jenkins said it himself. Sara Sidle **is** a CSI. She has proved herself time and time again. She brings rapists and murderers to justice on a nightly basis. Ask anyone who knows her and the one thing they'll say is that Sara is dedicated to her job. She worked harder than any other CSI to serve this city and county. Over time, personal time, hours upon hours of it, was dedicated to study and training above and beyond that of the departmental requirements. On her own time, she served as a mentor at the local high schools, works with the Big Brothers, Big Sisters Foundation and volunteers time at the Clark County Shelter for Troubled Women. Does that sound like a murderess to you? Sara Sidle **is** a selfless servant of this city. She puts her life on the line every single night, serving the citizens of this Las Vegas and Clark County. She also **loves** Gil Grissom. He was her mentor, she was his friend, and she was his lover. She is also a victim. She **should not** be sitting at that table, standing trial. She should be in the gallery with the rest of the grieving friends and family of Gil Grissom, ready to testify against the **real **killer. The Prosecution will throw around circumstantial evidence and misleading terms. Keep one thing in mind, though, Sara is a victim and she lost the man she **loves**. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time and has been left to twist in the wind, alone. **She** found the body. Sara walked in, ready to see her lover, and found him dead. There is not one shred of so-called-evidence that connects her to the crime and by the time we're done, the City will owe Sara an apology and maybe then they can start the search for the real murderer of Gil Grissom."_

_Judge Herbert Shaney listened to both arguments with a tilted head. He also watched the jury. Shaney had played both sides of the fence. Ten years in the private district, defending and, fifteen years with the State, prosecuting. He was hard on crime and a proponent of the death penalty._

_The Gallery was full of silent observers. In the front row behind the prosecution's table sat the Night Shift. Catherine Willows, Warrick Brown, Nick Stokes and, on the end, Conrad Ecklie. That was not to say, however, that the row behind the defendant's table was empty. Detective Sofia Curtis, Wendy Simms, David Phillips, and Greg Sanders sat stoically behind Sara, offering support. The entire department was at odds with itself, some in support of Sara Sidle, others disgusted by the idea of one of their own slaying another. _

_A portrait of Gilbert Grissom, from what picture no one, save Catherine Willows, knew exactly, sat in the corner of the courtroom. It was a silent witness to the proceedings. A reminder to all who the ultimate victim was. _

It had been a long time ago, five years, and she could still recall everything with a disturbing amount of clarity. She often revisited the scenes of the trial in her dreams, but the outcome was always the same, every damn time.

"SARA!"

Was it time to go already? Had the precious hour slipped away so quickly?

"ON YOUR LEFT, GOD DAMNIT!"

She turned just quickly enough to see an orange blur barreling towards her. To slow, though, to dodge the painstakingly sharpened piece of scrap metal in the woman's hand completely. White hot pain cut across her ribcage and she stifled her yell. She fell, to the side, both from pain and attempting to escape further injury. The attacker - Sara didn't even recognize the woman - went too. Heavy fists came down on her, with the point of the makeshift knife between the knuckles. She had always been a pacifist. Sara had never been given to wanton violence. Even now, though, her instincts, passed down from millions of years of evolution and one good self-defense instructor kicked in. Using her elbows, knees and all the strength she had, she fought her way out from under the heavier woman. By the time she had gotten a couple of feet away, the guards swooped in. She hadn't been able to regain her feet, but was on one knee. Wheezing now, Sara lifted up one hand, palm open to show she was unarmed. The other clasped her slashed side, in a weak attempt to hold back the blood that was gushing from the wound. The sounds of the yard started to warble around her as the bright afternoon started to turn gray. One of the guards, Howie, looked down at her. "Sidle?" She squinted up at him and tried to speak, but couldn't force a sound through her suddenly tight and dry throat.


	13. Chapter XII: More Then Miles

_Chapter XII_

_More Than Miles_

Lindsey's playlist was still programmed into her stereo from the last time the college student had been home. Though she couldn't say that the noises coming out of the speakers were her idea of music, she let it play on anyway. This drive was less about the miles that lay between Vegas and the Nevada Women's State Correctional Facility and more about the mental space. She couldn't let it rest in her head until she knew. They had worked a case here before. An inmate had strapped to the bottom of the bus, trying to escape. She had driven the same strip of road then. Her fingers tapped along to the beat of the band wailing away through the speakers. Catherine Willows was never a woman who was short of words, but what exactly was she supposed to say?

'Hey Sara, I heard they didn't kill you. So you know that phone call that I swore never happened, can you remember exactly what was said?'

God, this had been so much easier when it had all been hypothetical. She had, hypothetically speaking, made this trip a million times. Sometimes she just all and all attacked the other woman, other times she had demanded to know why, screamed until Sara broke. Other times, she had begged for forgiveness. Hypothetically speaking, she had said it all. In reality, she didn't know what to say. Who did? Miss Manners had never covered this particular subject. She was making this trip alone, though both Gillian and Warrick had offered to come with her.

It had been tempting, to bring one or both along with her. Warrick, though, had other, just as important, things to do today and Gillian was left as the next senior CSI on duty that night. Since they were off shift, and she or Warrick should arrive back before the Night Shift even began stirring, it should be okay. She hoped. The Good Lord knew, Gillian wasn't yet ready to lead. Because every time she turned around, the woman she had begun to think of as her protégée was clawing at Fawn. Honestly, they reminded her of –  
A sudden roll in her gut made her pause, but if she couldn't admit it now... The two younger women reminded her of herself and Sara Sidle. They too, had fought as cats and dogs; fire and ice personified. She had always figured they'd either resort to fists or... "God." She wasn't ready for this.

She stopped at the first guard check point and flashed her ID. Five years and she wasn't ready for this. She wasn't ready to face Sara yet, but here she was.

The khaki-clad Bubba who checked her told her to drive in. Even with his over sized mirror sunglasses - the kind that had went out of style in the eighties and had never made a comeback - she had been able to tell that he had been ogling her breasts. She had controlled the need to sneer and tell him to look at her _face_.

The prison loomed ahead, a concrete compound surrounded by razor wire and desert. The towers had guards in them; she could see the sun's gleam coming off their machine guns. She parked her car in the mostly empty visitor's parking lot. If one could call the pathetic stretch of cracked, unmarked asphalt and cement a parking lot. She made one last check of her appearance in the rear view mirror and pushed her sunglasses up to the bridge of her nose. She looked cool and professional. No one, not even Sara, would fault the severely cut black power suit and starched white dress shirt. Though why she was trying to impress Sara, she had no idea. The clothes, she decided, were just another kind of armor. Sara had once accused her of letting her sexuality cloud her head. She wouldn't be able to do so today.

She went through the front and began the lengthy process of being checked in. She checked her gun, and felt strangely incomplete without the pistol she'd had for so many years, and walked through the full body-scan metal detector. She hoped that the man looking at the X-Ray that would show her without her clothes would enjoy the picture because it was probably as close as the disgusting, leering troll of a man would get to a consenting woman. She signed her name to the electronic log and waited for someone to escort her back to one of the interview rooms.

It was thirty minutes before anyone even spoke to her. In that thirty minutes she'd paced the "waiting room", all sixty feet of it, until she was intimately familiar with its dimensions. She had broken a sweat - apparently the jail didn't believe in central air - and had been forced to shed her suit jacket. She had gone from slightly uncomfortable with the situation to thoroughly pissed with the interminable waiting.

Finally, just about the time she'd been ready to give the wilted looking receptionist a piece of her mind, someone came through the door marked 'Authorized Personnel Only' He was a thick man, heavy set with flesh that might have been muscle at one time. His handlebar mustache and bolo tie were passé and his over sized cowboy hat made him look like a caricature, a cliché Southern jail keeper. If he called her little woman or referred to the inmates as 'varmits' she would be forced to hit him, hard. He smiled at her with tobacco-stained teeth and offered a hand. "I'm Caleb Rhett, Head Warden." She nodded, "I'm Catherine Willows. I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I need to speak with one of your inmates." He nodded, and smiled at her again. She watched him, out of the corner of her eye, give her a once over, his eyes lingering for a moment longer than appropriate on her breasts and ass. Once it might have been gratifying, now it was annoying and a just a little on the sleazy side. "Which one of our lovely ladies would you like to speak with today?" He had a cocky little smile on, like he was about to follow up with a rude suggestion or a come-on. She cut that off at the knees. "Sara Sidle."

The reaction, the look of absolute hate that went across his face, told her that she could have done nothing to piss him off more. Good. He snorted. "She would be dead but for our pussy, pardon my French, Governor. She nodded, "I'm aware of that. I would like to speak with her. It is important." He shrugged and grabbed the ten-years-out-of-date walkie-talkie that had been hooked to his thick belt. He grunted into it, she could pick out the words 'Sidle', 'bitch' and 'location', but nothing else. A crackling reply came, and Catherine picked out the most important parts immediately: 'incident', 'blood losses' and 'infirmary'. Rhett cursed, and looked at her. "Well, she's gotten herself into some more shit - pardon me again - so maybe you should come back.

Unwanted concern jumped up in her breast. Five years were suddenly squashed by an older reaction. Sara was hurt; she had to be there for her. As quickly as the thoughts had come, they left and she hardened her resolve. "I don't have all day and I don't have time to come back. Just have someone take me to the infirmary; I'll talk to her there."

* * *

The puddle jump from LA to Vegas was uneventful, he would have slept the entire way, but for the screaming toddler that seemed like a requirement on every flight. This trip, though, wasn't about miles. He was going back to face his demons, in a very real way. It was easy to drive by the junkies and think that he was so much better off. It was easy to feel clean when you looked back on memories. It was going to be an entire different ball game, facing everything again. Trial by fire, he supposed.

His personal DN was sitting on the tray in front of him, a mini laptop. If he had felt like it, he could have plugged in his ear buds and listened to his extensive music collection. He could have just as easily checked his email, made a phone call, or watched one of the movies he had stored on the thin device. Instead, he stared out the plane's window. He knew that if he had taken a night flight, he would see The Strip laid out before him when they made their approach. It was daytime, though, and things always looked far less glamorous in the light of the desert sun.

All around him were tourists. They were going to stay in the Internet travel agency "super deal" off-the-strip second-rate hotels and pump money into the casinos one gamble at a time. Though they didn't know it, one in every eight of them would find themselves robbed, mugged or swindled. One in every two hundred and seventy-four of them would be arrested or, at the very least, detained by casino security and one in every thousand tourists would be seriously assaulted, raped or murdered during their stay in the Sin City. They didn't know that of course. Those weren't the kind of statistics the department of tourism released. The couple on his right, like most on the plane, had one thing on their mind: 'What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.' If only that were the truth.

What did the hapless, bright and bubbly, tourists that surrounded him really know about Las Vegas? They didn't know which streets to avoid, which gangs to fear or what the words 'Fanny-smacking' really meant. His cheek twitched involuntarily at the memories. If Vegas held bad memories for him, and it did, it held something else too.

The pilot announced their final approach and the stewardesses began their lecture about tray tables, upright positions and seat belts. He snapped his seat belt together and frowned. Vegas held his redemption. It might have been a little childish, a little whimsical to think so, but he did. Maybe he could find something he'd lost here. His sense of humor, his light heart, his clean conscience. Re-investigating Grissom's case, looking back at the dark time when he'd begun making the wrong choices. Maybe, just maybe, he could start mending fences and moving on. He had a lot to apologize for and he couldn't blame it all on the drugs.

_February 23, 2007_

_Sara was on the stand. She looked so pale and wasted away. A stiff breeze would knock her over. He had seen her testify countless times. He'd always liked to see her like that. She always wore the same suit; she'd told him that it made her feel confident. She wore it now, but the black skirt and blazer no longer hugged her curves in the way that had once had attorneys, defendants, jurors and even the judge look at her appreciatively. Her voice was clear as a bell, steady and confident, though. Her lawyer had, from the mumblings he'd picked up, been reluctant to put her on the stand, but there she was._

"_Sara, could you please explain to me the relationship you and Gil Grissom had?"_

_A slight smile, a phantom of a grin touched Sara's face. _

"_I love him. He loved me." She shook her head, and for a moment, her voice seemed unsteady. "We had been seeing each other for about six months or so." _

_Lexine Verona, her lawyer nodded, "And why didn't you tell anyone else?" Sara sighed and he could see the battle in her eyes. What she wanted to say and the absolute truth that she'd sworn to tell. "We didn't want to be the center of gossip, of talk. This wasn't a trashy office fling, it was real. I love Gil."_

_The words, each and every single one of them, were like daggers in his heart. She loved him? Gil had loved her? He, Greg Sanders, had loved her for a long time. She'd never looked at him that way, not once. He would have given her anything, done anything for her. _

_The truth was that she had been in love with another man. As much as that hurt, the fact that she hadn't told him hurt just a little bit more. They had been friends._

_Greg stood up in the middle of the testimony and walked out of the courtroom. He would only return for the verdict, and when he did, he sat behind the Prosecutor's desk._

He had loved her, and maybe on some level, he still harbored feeling for her. That was what his counselor had said at least. The thing was; he found it hard to believe that he was the only one. Everyone had been a little bit in love with her. Some loved her as a friend, others as a sister and a few loved her with all their hearts. That was why it had hit them all so hard. Her betrayal, or the illusion of it, had hit them all in their most vulnerable place, their hearts. She was a woman that you wanted to laugh with, cry with, and protect as though the devil himself was threatening her. He had, much like so many others, turned his back on her when she'd needed him most.

Now there was new evidence, the case reopened, and he was going back. Trying to go back across burnt bridges and find some sort of peace. The landing gear hit the tarmac and the plane lurched to a halt. He was back in Las Vegas, his own city of ruin. This time, though, he intended to make things right, if that was even possible.

* * *

The flight had been long, the movie boring and the aisle seat too small. Now, walking out, towards the bustling floor of McCarran Airport, he wondered one more time why he was here. Was it to honor the memory of a man or to help redeem the reputation and save the life of a woman? Sara and Griss, he had missed it completely. Even now, years later, he could hardly see it. Everyone had known there had been something there, but he had always thought that Sara... He sighed. Sara. She was his age, forty, but they had always been so different. Maybe that had been why they had been such steady friends. They had disagreed from time to time, professionally speaking, but they'd always been there for each other. Until the end. Grissom had always said that the evidence never lied. He had wanted it to be wrong. He wanted to believe in Sara. Somehow, though, he had ended up on the other side of the courtroom. He could still see her hurt expression when she'd seen him there. He could still hear Sofia's scathing run down of him echoing loudly in his head.

_February 23, 2007_

_It was all beginning to wear them down. Days in court, going through the emotional wringer, working cases at night. They sat there, listlessly staring at their food. Cath, Warrick, Greg and himself. The circle was small now; two absences were keenly felt. The day's testimony weighed heavily on their minds, but no one spoke. He looked up, out of pure instinct, when the bell above the diner door rang, signaling a new patron had entered. Some part of him expected to see Griss coming in. Griss was dead, though, and he wasn't coming back. _

_It was Sofia Curtis, still dressed for court. She looked at them and at first, he thought, he'd hoped, she'd keep the silence. The split in the lab, in the PD, had effected them all. It was a pot that was all but ready to boil over. Like them, Sofia had dark circles under her eyes, but there was fire in them too. She started towards them and he knew he wasn't ready for this confrontation. _

_Sofia was in Sara's corner; no ifs, ands or buts. _

_She stopped a few feet away, as if being too close to them would have been an indirect betrayal of Sara, and stared them down. Beside him, Catherine stiffened, more than ready for the fight. She looked from one of them to the other, her gaze resting on Greg for the longest. "Cowards. Low-life cowards. Sara was behind you -all of you, every time you needed her. She never missed a day of your civil trial, **Greg**. She worried herself physically sick when you were buried, **Nick**." He looked up, her words made sense, but it wasn't connecting in his head. Sofia looked at him, her aristocratic blue eyes burning into his own red-rimmed ones. "You didn't know that, did you? I was afraid I was going to have to take her to the hospital it got so bad. She just popped an antacid and squared her chin, though. She told me she'd rest when you were back, safe and sound." Her words didn't stop there. "Yeah, _**_Warrick,_**_ she investigated you__" She'd cut her gaze to the man before he could speak, "She also told Grissom that if he ever asked her to do so, she'd quit right then and there. She never told you that, though, did she? She let herself look like the bad guy so you could keep hero-worshiping Gil." He thought, for a moment, that she might be done. That had only been the prologue, though. Her voice had gone dangerously low when her eyes fell to Catherine. "And you." He'd grabbed Catherine's wrist, trying to tell her to stay down. Catherine had never listened well. "She would happily march into Hell to help you. For all the thanks, she gets. Tell me, **Catherine**. Where is the Eddie Willows Murder file? Don't answer that, I know where it is. Her top right drawer. A constant reminder of how she failed you." She shook her head, "The minute she needs your support, though, you all walk away from her. Almost seven years and she's still the 'New Girl'." She shook her head, "Cowards."_

Sofia had been right; they'd left her to twist in the wind by herself. He had forgiven other, more viscous and personal crimes against him. The memory of the coffin made the hair on his arms stand at attention. Yet, he had never gone to see Sara, not once. He'd not written her, he'd tried his hardest to block the memory of his 'Sunshine' from his mind.

He'd failed.

He'd told Cori all of this, down to the smallest detail. She'd given one of her patented looks, the kind that made interns quake in their lab coats and perps piss their pants. "Well, you better get your fine ass to Vegas and right those wrongs, Mr. Stokes." God, he loved her. His wife was right, of course, it was high time he made things right. This was his chance, a God-sent second chance and this time, he wouldn't be a coward, he wouldn't back down and he wouldn't try to forget anything.

This time, he too was in Sara's corner.

Better late than never, he hoped.

* * *

Traditionally airports, train stations, and bus depots are places of great joy and great sadness. "Welcome homes" and "Call me when you get there"s. They are chaotic scenes of lost luggage, background checks, and metal detectors.

Warrick stood outside of the building, leaning against his department issued 2010 GMC Forge. His legs were crossed at the ankles and his arms were folded across his chest. As he waited for them, he admitted, he'd missed his guys. He'd been an only child and he, Nick, and Greg had been like brothers. He didn't like to think about it often, but they'd been his brothers and Sara had been like a sister. Talk about broken families. Greg arrived first.

They'd all thought he'd been doing okay, until he hadn't been. The spiky haired DNA expert turned CSI had drifted high and to the right and they'd all missed it. He and Catherine had been too wrapped up in their own grief to see that the youngest member of their once unbreakable circle had taken a nosedive of the worst kind. When they had figured out, it had been another hit to the heart. He pulled away from them. He had been the one to find Greg, after months without a word, at Desert Palms, fighting his way back out of an overdose induced coma. They had lost him; oh, he had recovered, but their Greg had been gone for a while. He'd checked into rehab, had gotten clean and had even started fresh, but the man hadn't been the same. Subdued, cynical, jaded and so serious. He wanted to blame Sara for it all, but he'd been doing that for too long.

Before he and Greg had finished their respectably short and macho hug complete with pats on the back, Nick had been on his way over to them.

Nick had done what had been right for him, he'd gone home. It hadn't been running, as he'd once accused the other man of. He and Nick had always been friends, always been friendly rivals. He though that after Nick had left, he'd lost a friend. That had been, of course, until Nick sent him an email that included a close percentage and a strange case. They had been doing for five years now, trading stories over long distance. Nick was the godfather to his oldest son and he had flown to Texas to be his best man.

The two men piled into his SUV, both grumbling about how _their_ departments hadn't given them the newest SUV on the market. The trip back to the lab was full of catching up, the miles ticked off on his odometer, but Warrick, just like his two best friends, knew that this trip was about more the miles.

Author's Note: Greg's Vegas Statistics are courtesy of The National Center for Making BS Sound Smart. It's the same place I consulted with to write all of my high school papers and a couple of my college ones. It's amazing how a few statistics will make a statement sound that much more believable, becuase we all know numbers never lie...but I do, allot.


	14. Chapter XIII: Nice To See You Again

_Chapter XIII_

_Nice to See You Again_

"Ow damn, I've seen a coroner be more careful than this." She kept a steady hand on the other woman's shoulder as she pulled the stitch through. "Yeah, well coroner's patients don't talk back to them. Now lie still or do I need to strap you down?" Beneath her fingers, Sara went very still. Damn it. "Sorry, I didn't mean..." The woman heaved a sigh, "No, it's all right, Doc, I know you're doing your best."

They were at twenty-six stitches with more than a few to go. Doctor Talia Christiansen had, at one time, been one of the most respected and sought after pediatricians on the East Coast, but that had been several years ago. Dreams and ambitions of research grants and awards had faded away years ago. There might not be as much satisfaction in stitching up a stabbed inmate as there was in seeing a five year old recover from a life threatening, flesh withering cancer, but there wasn't half as much heartache either.

Usually, she would have been grumbling about the dregs of society, and how violence only perpetuates violence. At the very least, she would have had an armed guard in the room. Sara Sidle was a special patient. It was rare, for her to become so attached to one single patient. She'd learned her very painful lesson on that years ago, but Sara was an exception to the rule. Not a month went by without Sara coming to the infirmary. It wasn't something she especially liked, her favorite patient being her most frequent one too. "Why wasn't someone watching out for you?" Lying on her stomach, Sara blew out a breath, "This _was_ someone looking out for me, if I hadn't have turned when I did, you'd be zipping me up in a body bag instead of stitching a scratch or two."

Cops never lasted long in prison. A year was something to say, five years was nothing short of a miracle. That said something about Sara. What exactly that was, Talia didn't know. She did know, though, that Sara was in pain, terrible pain. She had nothing more than Tylenol to give her for it, which made things all the worse. The Warden would have to sign off on anything stronger in this case and, this case being Sara's case, he wouldn't. The Penitentiary's infirmary was about a decade or two behind the times and everything had to be closely monitored because it was a prison, not a monastery. Rhett was also a low-down son of a bitch that she would dearly love to strangle. The "scratches" she was cleaning up were shallow enough to be non-life-threatening, but deep enough to cause her to worry a little bit.

The none-too-discrete shriek of a buzzer told Talia that someone else, probably someone going through some particularly nasty withdrawal symptoms, had entered her domain. She tied off the last of her thirty-four stitches on Sara's side and taped the gauze over the wound. "You." She tapped the top of Sara's head, "Stay put."

She went around the privacy curtain and snapped off her gloves. One eyebrow arched. This was no inmate going through withdrawal. "Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my infirmary?"

* * *

You could get used to the poorly made burn-your-retinas-bright orange clothes, the ill-prepared food, even the idea that you were _in prison_, but she'd never get used to the attacks. Sometimes, she half understood why someone was attempting to kill her. Especially if she had helped put the woman behind bars. Other times, she just didn't get it. There was a code in prison. Child molesters were targeted; sure, that was common knowledge. Obviously ex-cops weren't very popular either, but some of the women who went after her, like today's attacker, just tried to kill her for the sheer act of attempting to kill her. They did it to get 'cred' or to show everyone who the 'top dawg' was. It had never made sense to her. Nevada was already going to kill her; the ladies could just kick back and wait for the state to take her life, and they wouldn't even have to spend time in solitary for it. 

They kept coming, though. They never thought twice about it either. She'd been beaten, stabbed, ganged up on in the showers, every bad prison movie cliché. She'd had been cut and or stabbed by sharpened spoons, whittled down toothbrushes, smuggled in needles, a pencil, a manipulated fork, and once, someone had even wrenched the leg off of their cot and had come at her with it. There hadn't been any blood spatter when they'd caught her in the head with it either. The phrase, "The first hit's free" had never had such a personal meaning before that particular concussion. She had been strangled, twice manually and once with a threadbare towel, she'd had her hand crushed by the free weights, she had been thrown against razor wire - she still hadn't quite figured out how Valentine had gotten her hands on that - and a had been tasered by guards trying to break up a fight more than once. Scars intersected each other, overlapped and running together. She'd always had scars, ever since she could remember she'd been explaining away some mark or another. Now, though, she sometimes felt like she had nothing but scars on her.

She was getting more stitches, thirty something if she counted right; that's what it felt like at least. She was sure, before she was released to go back to her cell, she would get a stern lecture. Anemic and hardheaded hippie would probably come into play somewhere. Doc Christiansen had sewed her up more times than either of them cared to count. She would have thought the woman would have given up on her by now. She hadn't. She was constantly at her to eat more. Sara was somewhere between touched and disturbed; keeping her in shape for the executioner? Of course, that wasn't it. Talia Christiansen was a good doctor; she was honestly concerned for her. Sara couldn't help but like her.

So when the usually soft-spoken woman's words went hard and loud, she began to stand up, ready to make sure some hooped-up inmate didn't try to rough her up for pain meds or whatever other high they were looking for. It had been known to happen and Sara wished the insufferably stubborn woman would keep an extra guard or two around.

* * *

A mix of catcalls, and curses followed her down the halls. Filth, the scum of the earth. Drug users, thieves, murderers. She made her way past the groups of them, some on work detail, some in their cells, still others being marched here or there, without sparing them a glance. She couldn't help but wonder, how had Sara survived in _this_? She made her way to the Prison's infirmary with a single-minded focus, trying her best to ignore the sounds, smells, and sights of the inmates around her. The infirmary door showed a Dr Christiansen was on duty. She stepped in and winced when a motion-sensitive buzzer went off. It was crude, but effective. 

A woman, probably around her age, in a white coat stepped around a curtain. She was pulling off her latex gloves and when she looked up, she saw gray eyes go wide under the glasses the woman had perched on her nose. Before she could open her mouth, the woman's face had gone hard and defensive. "Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my infirmary?" Pale and slender with blonde hair touched by strands of gray here and there, the doctor, Doctor Christiansen, she presumed, was tougher than she appeared.

"I'm calling security."

Catherine felt her temper, which was hovering closer to the surface than usual kick up. Her quarry was just behind the privacy curtain and she had to deal with Nurse Ratched before she could talk to the woman.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" Her words sounded prideful, egotistical even. The woman was unimpressed, "No and as you don't appear to be bleeding, I can't seem to bring myself to care." Catherine opened her mouth to blast back, but was cut off.

"Catherine Willows, Doc, she's with the Las Vegas Crime Lab."

Both women turned to look at the brunette standing at the edge of the privacy curtain. Brown eyes met Catherine's own blue, and Catherine immediately looked away. She deserved the hate in those eyes as well as the venom in her voice. "Nice to see you again, Cat."

Author's Note: Oh we all knew this was coming. Fun-Fun.


	15. Chapter XIV: How Have You Been?

_Chapter XIV_

_How Have You Been?_

She didn't know what she expected. Sara had been in prison, not on an extended vacation. Still, the other woman's appearance surprised her. At forty years old, she still looked young, slender and toned. No, this wasn't slender, she was skinny, Catherine could count every rib she had under the dingy tank top. She could also see fresh white gauze peeking out from the tank top. There was an ID bracelet on wrist and Sara held an orange shirt in the opposite hand. It wasn't just her weight, though.

Without access to regular salon visits, product, or even a hairdryer, Sara's hair had rebelled against the straight style she'd habitually worn it in. Curls spiraled and waved chaotically and even though the woman had her hair pulled back, something Sara had rarely done, Catherine could tell it was longer than she had ever seen Sara wear her hair. Her bare arms had scars up and down them, and a couple of dark bruises on the inside of her elbows. Where, Catherine knew, the needles had been. Her nose, once straight, now listed to the left and one of her pencil thin brows had a jagged scar going through it. The piece-de-resistance, though, was the thick, jagged scar on the woman's neck. She spoke before she could think. "Je-sus, Sara, what the hell happened?"

* * *

Catherine's scrutiny made her more aware than ever of how much she had changed. She wasn't the attractive thirty-something she had been. Of course, Catherine had always made her feel less-attractive in comparison. Even now, when the woman was probably pushing fifty, she looked cool, collected, undeniably attractive, and very subtly sexy. She, on the other hand, was woozy from blood loss and sporting the newest look in prison chic. Catherine's gaze fell on her neck and Sara knew what she was seeing. It looked like she'd just missed a date with a noose instead of a needle. "Joanne McKay-Trent." She shrugged, "She told me a scar for a scar or at least I think that was what she was saying, I was a little busy trying not to die at the time." Catherine's gaze was steady, but her eyebrows had risen. Sara shrugged, "Disappointed I survived? Why are you here, anyway? To personally reassure me that my execution will be rescheduled?" Catherine shook her head slowly, "Trent. Trent? As in Adam Trent; the guy that attacked you at the Mental Institution?" Going for casual, Sara eased her arm back through the sleeve of her orange uniform. She grit her teeth and winced when the movement caused the muscles along her injured right side to ripple. "Yeah, his mother. She's serving ten years for incest, or she was. She died last year, and before you try to pin that on me, ask the Doc, stroke."

* * *

She might have, especially considering the new evidence, every right to say those things to her, but Catherine had never let Sara Sidle walk all over her. "Can the crap, Sidle. What happened to you today?" Sara was buttoning the shirt up with one hand, "Another one of my fans wanted to express their gladness that Nevada didn't beat them to punch." Doctor Christiansen scowled and batted Sara's hand down, and finished the buttoning. "She was assaulted, again, a five inch long cut, of medium depth, cutting through all the layers of skin and scraping the top layer of muscle. Not to mention several puncture wounds to go with it." 

Catherine nodded, "Is she fit to answer a few questions?" Both the doctor and Sara did a double take, Sara adding a curse under her breathe. Christenson looked at Sara, "I'm getting the idea that this isn't exactly a happy reunion?" Sara shrugged, "Doc, meet the prosecution's star witness." She sighed, "Whatever, Catherine. I'll play your little mind game."

Catherine shook her head, understanding where Sara was coming from now. "This isn't a game, Sara. We've reopened the case."

For a moment, Sara didn't speak. She only blinked. Emotions, though which ones Catherine couldn't be sure, flickered through brown eyes. "Don't." Sara suddenly turned away. "Celebrate my execution, Catherine. Damn me to the deepest part of hell, but don't _fuck_ with me like this. If the case was reopened, _Sofia_ would have told me so."

Catherine put the file on the instrument tray that was between them. "I'm not joking and who the hell do you think is heading up the investigation? Sofia and I officially reopened the case last night." Sara looked at her, stepping away from the doctor. The guard, when he had come in Catherine wasn't sure, stepped forward. Sara held up her hands, "Easy there, Mick, I just want to get a look at the file she has, that's all."

After a moment of flipping, she looked back up. "You're not kidding." Catherine nodded, "No, I'm not." Their tempers had, for the moment, quieted. She knew, though, that it was only a temporary truce. "What brought this on?"  
She'd known this would happen. She would have to bring up the phone call. "Your alibi."

* * *

Her alibi? The one that Catherine had shoved down her throat and ordered her to choke on? "The phone call you swore you never made?" Her throat dry, she nodded, "What about it?" Catherine licked her lips, "Do you remember anything about it, specifically, exact phrases or details?" Countless statements and testimony, and she wanted to hear it one more time? That was okay, it wasn't a conversation she was likely to ever forget. 

"You called me, it must have been around a quarter till ten that night. You asked for my help with a case. The address you gave me was on Crestview, an old hotel." She shook her head; why the hell was she going over this again? "I went out to the site, only to find that there was no crime scene and the hotel had folded years ago. There wasn't a uniform in sight and you were no where to be found. I thought it was some kind of freaky joke; maybe you had hit the champagne at the reception a little harder than you'd meant to. I went back to Gil's and..." The memory tried to come back to her mind's eye. She swallowed a burning throat full of acid and shook her head. "And you know the rest."

Catherine's next words hit her like a punch. "Did I tell you what kind of case it was?" Sara looked up at her, "No, but I figured it was a rape case, you were upset and it was so soon after your abduction...It doesn't matter. Why are you owning up to all this now? It's too little, too late, you know that."

* * *

Too little, too late. Sara's words landed like a slap. "You never mentioned it was a rape case or that I sounded upset." Sara shrugged, "Your abduction wasn't national news; I saw no reason to announce it to the world. Does Lindsey even know what happened to you? Does anyone outside of the lab?" 

God Damn It. Five years, a scathing testimony that swayed the jury and a bitter battle between them and Sara had tried to protect her reputation. "Sara I-" She saw it before the brunette did it. She reached out and touched Catherine's arm. She didn't jerk away or call out, she wasn't afraid of Sara. For some reason, even when she had been sure she had killed Gil, she'd never been afraid of her. The guard, though, all but jumped on them. "NO PHYSICAL CONTACT!" He took Sara's arm, the left one and lead her away.

Catherine was no dupe; Sara had set that up. Over her shoulder, Sara's gravelly voice sounded off, "I expect my lawyer will be along any time to explain what's going on, CSI Willows."

She was left with the doctor, the doctor who didn't seem to particularly like her. She felt compelled to say something, but the doctor only scowled at her, "Get out of my infirmary, Ms. Willows, you've done more than enough damage as it is."

Author's Note: Joanne McKay or Joanne Trent is from _Commited. _Not the brawl some were hoping for, I'm sure, but there's plenty more story to go.


	16. Chapter XV: Past and Present

_Chapter XV_

_Past and Present_

"Why are we doing this again?" Gillian was leaning against the doorframe, holding the door open, allowing Fawn to pass by her with two of four boxes of evidence. They had spent a good three hours in one of the cavernous warehouses full of musty old boxes. The evidence was now kept in self-contained crates, but it was still a big warehouse full of endless rows of boxes and one smart mouthed clerk who wouldn't know good police work if it had bit him in the ass. "Because Catherine is out at the Penitentiary, and she'll probably want this stuff when she gets back." Gillian bent down and picked up her own two boxes. "I know that, I mean reopening the case," Almost shoulder to shoulder, faces mostly obscured by the boxes, they got to the biggest layout room and put the boxes on the table. "For one messed up audio clip? It sounds pretty weak." Fawn pushed her streaky brown hair out of her eyes. "Well, you were here when it all went down, right?" Gillian opened the first box, marked with initials, CW, and shrugged, "My rookie year, I was actually a glorified lab rat on dayshift, but I was here." Fawn nodded and starting checking items off of a list. "So you knew Doctor Grissom?" Something, it must have been sadness or maybe even guilt, skated across Gillian's face, "Yeah." Fawn frowned, "What about this Sara Sidle?" Gillian scowled, "I met her a couple of times, before it all happened." She shrugged, "She was a workaholic and a loner. I didn't know her well." Fawn nodded but filed the information for later examination, Gillian's blank face and her bone white knuckles gripping the evidence bag, they were saying two different things.

Fawn nodded, and decided it would probably be safer to drop the subject. "All right, since this is an old school case, and Catherine's an old school CSI, she'll probably want a case board." They worked in silence for a bit, bringing out old pictures and one of the old school sketches that Catherine and Warrick seemed to love so much. The five-year-old crime slowly blossomed before them.  
Fawn, who had specialized in cold cases while working in her home town of Detroit, tilted her head to the side. "Spatter and cast off are consistent with stabbing." She frowned, "But there are no high or mid velocity droplets, castoff or splashing on Sidle's clothing." She looked from the laid out shirt to the photographs. "In fact," She picked up the thick file, "The state of her clothes matches her statement, that she _found_ the body."  
Gillian frowned, "No, all that means is that she had enough blood on her by the time she was done to cover up the _initial_ spatter. Here's the thing, she was a CSI too. She'd know how to cover her tracks."

Fawn bit her bottom lip, frowning in concentration. "I think that's what bothers me the most. She was a CSI."

Gillian taped another picture to the board, "That doesn't mean she isn't a killer." Fawn looked up from the DNA results she'd been going over. "Yeah, but she was a good CSI." Gillian's eye roll attested to her impatience with the subject, but Fawn pushed on. "I've read over her file. A BS in Physics from Harvard, and in December of 2006, she graduated with a Masters degree in Theoretical Physics from UNLV. She moved from CSI II to CSI III in eighteen months, and for most people it takes at least two years and some odd months."

Gillian raised a raven brow, "It sounds like you're more interested in _dating_ Sidle then working her case."

Fawn felt her temper jump, and she reined it in like a rottweiler on a chain. She _could not_ afford to have Catherine catch her jumping down Gillian's throat again, not over something trivial. "No, what I'm saying is that she's smart enough to have covered it up better, that's all." She frowned, "I mean, her DNA everywhere, her fingerprints on the murder weapon. This is basic stuff. No one even knew about her relationship with the guy. It just seems sloppy and to all accounts, one thing Sara Sidle wasn't was sloppy."

"She wasn't."

* * *

The pictures, five years old, still hit him like a punch to the gut. Griss lying on the bed, covered in his own blood. Sara, glassy eyed, and painted in hues of sickly white and gory red. There were some cases, some scenes, and some events that would always stay with him. These images were the ones that stole his breath and shook him from the soundest of sleeps. Warrick had always hoped that he'd never have to face these pictures again. Gillian and Fawn didn't have the same connection to this case as he, Greg and Nick did. This was almost a normal case for them. They were looking at it through unbiased eyes. For a minute he wished he could be that young again. Neither of the women had seen their thirtieth birthday yet and were far from jaded. He didn't begrudge them their youth or their light spirits; he no longer wished so fervently for the first but would have gladly borrowed some of the second. The weight on him, on all of them, seemed almost unbearably heavy.

Gillian, ever the social butterfly, grinned and looked from Warrick to Nick and finally Greg. He could see the change on her face. For him, she had a smile of friendship. For Nick, her eyes flashed from his face to his left hand and then back again. Greg, she looked at longer. A small frown took over her face. She obviously remembered his last, dark year with the LVPD. Fawn, the pint sized CSI, was unreadable, her face was placid, but her wide hazel eyes darted between the new faces before meeting his own. A quick lift of her brow signaled her want of an explanation, or at the very least, an introduction.

Feeling unusually uncomfortable with the situation, he sank his hands into his pockets. "Ladies, let me introduce you to Nick Stokes and Greg Sanders, your predecessors. They're here from Dallas and LA to help out with the Grissom case. Guys, these are your younger, hotter replacements, Gillian Rayne and Fawn Drex."

Usually, Gillian would be the first to jump to meet a new face. So it slightly surprised him to see Fawn reaching her hand out to Greg first. Then again, she'd always done anything she could to needle at Gillian and, from the looks the other woman had been sending Greg, Fawn was probably doing it out of pure spite. You'd never know it. The woman offered Greg a grin, "I read your last paper, genius stuff." Greg blushed ever so slightly and shook the woman's hand, but before he could even get a full word out, Fawn had a grin on her face, "So tell me, did Doctor Grissom _really_ infect you with mildew once?" He had no idea how the woman had heard that particular story, but it didn't matter. The big grin that went across Greg's face washed away the years and the mistakes and for just a moment. He saw Greggo, the Lab Rat and goofy CSI I again. "I thought the CDC was going to swoop down on me right then." She laughed, "You must have a hundred great, embarrassing stories about Catherine and Warrick, and I've already heard some stuff about Nick over there."

Beside him Nick groaned melodramatically. "I don't know what 'Rick's been saying, but it's all a lie, I promise."

* * *

"Not everything, Nicky." The reunion was, at the same time, complete and sorely lacking. Not to belittle Fawn and Gillian, but they weren't Griss and Sara. Catherine breezed in and wasted no time. She pulled Nick into a hug, asked about Cori, and subtly let Gillian know that Nick was off-limits. She was, despite the bad times between them, just as happy with Greg. She looked him over - about the same way, she would have Lindsey - and hugged him tightly. The tension that had been on her face melted away and she looked at both men. "I missed you guys so much." Gillian let out a snort, "Wow, Cath, I can feel the love over here." They shared a laugh and the usual niceties were quickly exchanged. No one wanted to look at the pictures and evidence that Fawn and Gillian had laid out, not yet at least.

The time would come, they all knew, that they would have to look at it. The feelings that certain tidbit of knowledge inspired in the gathered group varied from hope and curiosity, from loyalty to the ice-cold fear of discovery.


	17. Chapter XVI: Cops, Lawyers and CSIs

_Chapter XVI_

_Cops and Lawyers and CSIs: Oh My. _

She had feared that her new team would resent the fact that Nick and Greg were walking back into the Crime Lab to help on a case. From the way Greg and Fawn had been bent over a section of pictures, bickering about some small detail and the way Gillian, Warrick and Nick were running a simulation, everything seemed to be going far better than she'd expected. It was about time something went right.

Five years ago, though, she had let Ecklie all but run the case. Oh, she had put her initials here and gathered evidence there; had testified at trial, but she hadn't held the real power. She had been his puppet, dancing to his tune. Of course, that didn't take the blame off of her. She had been the CSI who had signed off on it. She had worked it from scene to courtroom. She had put a face, one so very familiar to her, on the case and had run every shred of evidence in to the ground, driving the nails into Sara's coffin herself. This time, Catherine vowed, would be differint. It was still personal, very, very personal, but she had distance from the pain, from the outrage and from the memories. There was so much at stake here, more than Sara's life and more than Gil's case. Lives had been ruined; it was time for the closure they thought they had found five years ago.

After sending Stephen and Fawn to a 419 at The Four Queens and Gillian to a Suspicious Circs in Henderson, they had looked over the case again. The years had gone by, but it had been so wonderfully familiar. Greg was on the cusp of earning his CSI III ranking, and had learned a great deal since she'd last worked with him. He'd grown up, too, though, which had given a sad tint to her pride in him. Her heart had broken for him when she'd realized, belatedly, how far he'd fallen. She should have seen the signs; hell, she had lived the signs. Despite his grapple with addiction, he was a phenomenal CSI. Then again, how could he not have been? Hadn't they all taught him? Gil, Warrick, Nick, herself and yes, Sara, had taught him the ins and outs of field work.

As always, Nick and Warrick worked well together. They both had tenacity about them. They worked away methodically, running theories and evidence until they made sense of everything. They were a good team, the four of them. Four, only four. They were good together, but she knew what was missing, they all could sense it. Professionally speaking, they didn't have a hardcore scientist anymore. That had always been the role that Gil or Sara had played. While Greg's style of running the evidence then forming theories resembled that of his teachers, it just wasn't the same.

She might have stayed wrapped up in the case, going over the facts and pieces of evidence she knew by heart all night and into the day, but the intercom paged for her. Years of achievement, updated technologies and sciences - they were going to put a man on Mars this year - but the crime lab still had a McDonald's Drive Thru Speaker as its PA system. Chuckling to herself as she went down the hall, she pondered who was here to see her. It was rather late, or early, depending on one's point of view, and most non-night-shift personnel didn't stir around at 1 AM, not without good reason.

She rounded the corner and instantly wished that she had told the receptionist to take a message. Lexine Verona did not like her. Of course, she was no big fan of the other woman herself. They had one thing in common, Sara Sidle's trial, and they had spent the entirety of it on opposite sides of the great divide between the parties of the victim and of the accused.

_Febuary 2007_

"_Ms. Willows, you were the first CSI on the scene?" Catherine nodded, "I was." Lexine Verona stood in front of her, dark eyes boring into her lighter ones. "Why didn't you recuse yourself?" She couldn't say the question came out of the blue, she had expected it. "I worked the case without prejudice, and felt that I and my team were the best suited to work the case." Verona crossed her arms and smiled. It was not a nice smile and Catherine recognized it. It was the same smile a shark had before it lunged at an injured surfer during high tide; she was on the attack. "So you investigated the murder of a coworker, of a close friend, despite crystal clear LVPD and Crime Lab Policy, because you **thought** your traumatized team was the best for the job." She didn't leave Catherine time to answer; of course Catherine hadn't been sure there had been an actual question there. "Ms. Willows, please tell me about your relationship with Sara." Jenkins had finally remembered his Litigation 101 courses and objected, Verona quickly explained her way to an overruled statement, and Catherine had to answer. "We are colleagues." Verona nodded, "But never friends." Catherine pursed her lips, Verona was trying to push her to show prejudice. She was trying to paint her to be some kind of revenge-minded vigilante. "We weren't best friends, but I never hated Sara, if that's what you're getting at." Verona nodded again, "And now?" Catherine arched a brow, "Would you be able to call someone who betrayed everything you believe in, and killed one of your closest friends and colleagues, a friend?" Verona, seeing that she had reached an end, frowned and announced that she had no further questions, but requested to be able to recall her at another time if deemed necessary. The judge allowed that and, almost immediately after the final syllable of his words left the judge's lips, Jenkins rose for a redirect. _

_They had practiced her testimony time, and time again, and they, in anticipation of Verona's most probable strategies, had prepared some questions for redirect. "Ms. Willows, you are the lead CSI for the case, but as Ms. Verona brought up, you also worked along side the defendant for years. Had she ever displayed a nastier side to her temper before?" He was referring to the Svetlanna Melton case. Out in the Gallery, she saw two different people looking at her. On one side of the room was Ecklie, the man who had called Sara a lose cannon with a gun and on the other side was Sofia Curtis, the woman whose testimony was going to be in direct conflict with hers. "Yes." Jenkins had said that this, along with a few other facts, would seal the deal. "There were several occasions where Sara Sidle showed that she had a short temper. We had exchanged several words over our tenure at the Crime Lab together, but the Svetlanna Melton Case was a breaking point..._

* * *

Anger was too mild a word for what she was feeling. She didn't know who Catherine Willows thought she was, but she was not above the rules. She had gone and spoken to Sara without prior knowledge, consent, or counsel present. She had spoken to Sara in the infirmary for God's sake. Being in prison _did not_ strip Sara of her rights, and Catherine Willows had stomped all over those. Of course, this was nothing, when she had heard about it, Sofia Curtis had passed up angry, furious and plain old pissed and had slammed the door to her office with so much force that the door's frosted glass pane had cracked. Since Catherine appeared to be intact and walking under her own power, it looked like she had beaten the Lieutenant to the punch. 

As soon as she saw the blonde, she began. "I will slap a suit on you, Willows. Just what the _hell_ were you thinking? Let me make this very, very clear. I don't care if you have a command direct from God himself, you will _not_ speak to _m_y _client _outside of my presence." She waited a beat and then continued, "You broke a handful of rules today, Willows. Rhett may be distracted by a _pretty face,_ but I am not. I will not let you ruin Sara's chance by dick-ing around with the rules." Again, she didn't wait for an answer. She went into her briefcase and pulled out two files. The first was thin, "These are the assorted warrants and motions I will be serving the DA's office. I _will_ be involved with this investigation on _every_ level. My client has a right to due process, which includes, as you well know, keeping myself and her abreast of the handling and re-examination of the evidence." She slapped the first file on the counter. The second she gripped in her left hand and contemplated throwing it onto Catherine's chest. The folder was not bulging with information, it wasn't nearly as thick as anyone would have liked it to be, but it was all they had. "These are reports and findings by a private detective who investigated this case on an independent basis. There were _several_ overlooked facts that he has brought to light." Calling on every bit of her control, she coolly laid the file on the counter beside the first. "Do I make myself clear?"

"You made yourself crystal clear, Lexine, now if I may?" Lieutenant Curtis came up beside them and Lexi, after taking a quick look to make sure the woman didn't look like she was about to pounce on Willows like a tiger, stepped aside. "Sofia."

* * *

She knew she'd have to deal with Curtis, but she wasn't exactly ecstatic about it. The woman gave her a long, icy, condescending glare. "I don't know if you're stupid or if you actually think you're invulnerable. You didn't go to the _mall_, Catherine. You strolled into a maximum-security prison full of women that _you_ personally put behind bars. Not only that, you went by yourself." A thousand things could have happened to the CSI. Things that were neither pretty nor painless. "The Sheriff would have a whole litter of kittens if he knew what you did." She left Catherine enough time to answer to that one. The woman blinked, "You mean you didn't run to him and tattle?" Sofia grimly shook her head, "The case is too important to screw up with little things like _you_ being an _idiot_. From now on, Catherine, no more visits without me, or one of my Detectives with you. For your own safety. I think you would understand that, after seeing Sara." 

The laying down of the law. This had been exactly why she had gone to see Sara by herself. Just to see her without having the do-good twins supporting the other woman. One-on-woman, woman-to-woman, she had needed to see Sara for herself. They were both right, of course. What she had done had been both reckless and against procedure. She would do it again in a heartbeat. "I'm going back tomorrow afternoon." Both of the other women nodded, and Sofia picked up the files to look over.

She left them there, Curtis and Verona, to talk. As she made her way back to the layout room, she felt the weight of the day, and of her actions, set in on her. It was one of those nights when she wondered just exactly what Gil had done in all those years.

Author's Note: I should not try to plot when I'm tired, bad things happen. Not bad as in someone gets hurt bad, but as in poor English and out-of-the-blue self contradicting 'huh?' bad.


	18. Chapter XVII: I Still Believe

_Chapter XVII_

_I Still Believe_

Breakfast was rarely as rowdy as lunch or dinner. Several years in prison had taught her that few criminals were morning larks and even a forced-in routine could not alter that. By general consensus, the back table in the far corner of the room was where one wanted to go for solitude. It was only used for extreme cases and the privilege was not abused. Even the guards knew that unspoken rule. Melissa was a great believer in rules. They were not made to be broken. What could not be broken, however, could surely be bent. Every rule and or law had a loophole, she had been a lawyer, and she was an expert at finding loopholes. This situation had a loophole big enough to drive a semi through. It was called 'The Best Friend Loop Hole' and, to her, it trumped all. Tray on her lap, she rolled up to the small table. "You look like you need some company." Sara didn't even look up from the gray goo the prison tried to call oatmeal. "Not now." Not deterred in the least by Sara's words or the surly scowl, she put her tray on the table. "They locked down H, B, and R Blocks you know? So, this is the first time we've been allowed to mix and mingle. Something happened and I want to know what." She gave Sara a once over, "You're out of the infirmary so she couldn't have gotten you that bad." Sara let the oatmeal dribble from her spoon back into the bowel, "Your concern touches me, Missa, it really does." She didn't even dignify Sara's sarcasm with an eye roll.

"Sheena Marks, she's serving fifteen to twenty for vehicular homicide. Vegas PD and Crime Lab worked the case. She's been here three days." Sara looked up and Melissa noted the dark bags under the eyes and the deeper than usual lines of fatigue. "News travels fast around this place."

Melissa took a sip of the weak excuse of orange juice she'd gotten, "She's not talking but I bet both my left and right leg that Valentine pointed her in your direction." Sara heaved a sigh, "Yeah." The fact that Sara didn't work a jab in about not being able to wager her paralyzed legs had her more concerned than ever. "But that isn't what's wrong. Tell me, Sara." Even now, the woman was a fortress. Sara wasn't a Chatty Cathy; she didn't talk unless she wanted to. "They're reopening the case."

Melissa dropped her spoon and it sunk into the oatmeal with a sucking plop. "You're joking." Sara swirled the thick goo around, not looking up from it. "Catherine came and told me herself." Six words, weighted with more meaning than some of her lengthiest closing arguments had been. She found herself nodding, "When I don't remember there being any visitors yesterday. We were all..." The funny thing about being a lawyer was that the career didn't just define you, it became you. Sleepless nights spent studying precedence and law books thicker and heavier then most bricks, left an impression. Her response, honed by years of working in the DA's office, came almost automatically, her head running through rules, precedents and procedures without a prompt to do so. "She questioned you in the _infirmary_?" From that realization, another was born, "Without your lawyer present?" It was a ballsy move, Melissa knew. Legally and procedurally speaking, Catherine Willows had screwed the pooch. As a psychological tactic, it was genius, and both she, Sara and Willows knew that psychology could often turn an entire case on its head. She had come herself - the woman who had testified against Sara, who had all but condemned Sara herself - to tell her that the case was being reopened. Though she could have never known that Sara was going to be in the infirmary, the woman had known that Sara had just faced down death in the chamber and had skated past it by the skin of her teeth. Was the bitch just trying to rattle Sara's cage? As much as she would like to hate Willows, she had to admit that this was a little far, even for her.

Her lawyer's brain quickly went through the motions. To reopen the case, there had to be some sort of doubt, or some new evidence. "On what grounds?" Sara blinked and refocused on her, the other woman had obviously been lost in space somewhere. "What?" Melissa folded her hands in front of her, unappetizing breakfast long forgotten, "On what grounds are they reopening the case, Sara?"

* * *

Melissa was no dummy; she still had a sharp legal mind. Sara had spent the entire night, awake, and pondering that very question. Why were they reopening the case? The alibi, Catherine had mentioned her alibi. That couldn't be it, though, could it? They had never been able to substantiate the phone call. Though she could remember, as though it had been only yesterday, the call. Her phone hadn't kept a record of it. When she'd gone back to prove it, the little machine had read that there had been a short, call from an unknown number, but that was all. Catherine's phone hadn't had any record of any call to Sara's phone for the past week. Tossing and turning, she'd gone over every piece of "evidence" they'd collected and used against her in her head. Had they, perhaps, found a new print on the knife using a new kind of printing technique? She racked her brains, recalling every article she'd read over the past few years, but nothing clicked.

She should have asked. She had been so angry, though. Catherine had been screwing with her. She'd been in pain, and upset and she had run, like a terrified five year old, back to her cell.

"I don't know. She mentioned something about my alibi, but I didn't give her much of a chance."  
Melissa read through the lines on that, "You lost your temper, didn't you?" She shrugged, "She was staring at my scars and acting _like Catherine_." When she said it aloud, it sounded both childish and stupid, two things she wasn't. "When Lexine comes, I'm sure I'll get the whole story." Melissa nodded, "Uh-huh. Well, it's a good thing you're going to have Lexine there with you, because you know you haven't seen the last of Catherine." Sara wrinkled her nose and pushed away her oatmeal. "I can handle Catherine." Melissa frowned at her, "I don't want you to blow this shot, Sara. Messing around with Willows is the surest way to stop the case before it even gets moving again. The wheels of Justice, Sara, can always be stopped by jamming a stick in between the spokes." The jarring sounds of the bell jangled above them and the familiar monotone drone of the canned instructions for putting up trays and forming lines began to play. Their time for breakfast, and this particular conversation had ended. Sara stood and brushed a few invisible crumbs off of her suit. "I don't believe in justice anymore." Beside her, Melissa wheeled herself around to go. "But I do, Sara, I still do. You've got a chance here, and like it or not, Catherine Willows is it."

They moved into line, one behind another, ready to fall into the day's routine. Sara moved like an automaton, not noticing much around her. She was lost in her head. While that wasn't different, or really remarkable at all, the thoughts that were swirling around her mind were. They were, for the first time in year, tinged with reluctant hope.

Author's Note: I've always wanted to know more about melissa Winters. She and Sara seemed to be rather close.


	19. Chapter XVIII: Familiarity

_Chapter XVIII_

_Familiarity_

The drive was the same, but this time, she wasn't alone. Sofia was sitting in the passenger seat, pouring over files like an ambitious and nervous freshman in her first college class. They had shared a little more than ten words since leaving Vegas. A couple of phone calls had revealed that Lexine Verona was going to meet them at the prison, and wanted a few minutes with Sara before Catherine came in to speak with her. Sofia had an awfully casual relationship with the lawyer, they were on a first name basis and Sofia had asked the woman about her son. As casual as they were trying to pretend this trip was, it was obvious that both of them were nervous. They didn't act like it though. They looked like the textbook picture of CSI and Detective. The guards gave them nods of grudging respect when they checked their service weapons before being led back into the bowels of the prison. The interview and observation room they were led to were very much like the ones at the PD. Through the one-way glass, they could see Lexine Verona waiting for the guards to bring Sara in.

Catherine had seen Sara in chains before. The image, though, still struck her with all the power of a Mac Truck. Legs shackled together at the ankles, wrists handcuffed, everything back to a belt around her waist. She shuffled into the room with two large guards by her side, Catherine could tell, despite the distance, that the men's grips would leave bruises on Sara's arms. Beside her, Sofia went stiff. Catherine had checked the logs; this was the first time Sofia had seen the woman she had so vehemently defended in five years.

* * *

Doug and Rick were Rhett's special little cronies. They were none too intelligent, but they usually let their muscles, or their clubs, do their talking for them. They were sadistic bastards. Between the painfully tight cuffs, their gorilla grips on her arms, and the still extremely tender and throbbing gash on her side, she was doing her best not to wince, and was losing. The interview room was like the ones she had spent so much time in as a CSI. The table was bolted down, as was the chair she was all but shoved into. There were places to chain her down with, so she could not stand or reach across the table. Add a face mask and she would have been just as secure as Hannibal Lecter. When the racketing of cuffs, rattling of chains and mumbling of rules were over, Doug and Rick stepped back and she focused on Lexi. The woman was dressed to kill today. Since, Sara supposed, Catherine was waiting in the wings somewhere, the fire engine red power suit was more for show then anything else. Their private joke had always been that Lexi could argue with the Devil himself and win, and she only wore that suit when she was digging in her heels for a brawl. "Two visits so close together, I'm feeling the love here, Lex." The woman only lifted a brow. "How's your side? Dr Christiansen told me she gave you thirty plus stitches." Sara shrugged as much as she could with the chains. "I've had worse." It was her turn to raise an eyebrow, "Would you like to tell me what's going on?" She waggled her eyebrows, and made a display of taking in the other woman's outfit, "Because it's not often that you go full on Satan Slayer on me."

Between the stayed execution, the brawl and lock-down, it had somehow gotten back to Monday. This was the first Monday in five years that she hadn't gotten a letter from Sofia. She was trying to convince herself that a visit from Lexi made up for it. She watched Lexine stand up and pace a bit. "They've officially reopened the case. As far as I can tell, it is the real deal. The evidence has been checked out of the locker, the file has been pulled; the ADA sent me notice." Sara nodded and without asking Lexine slid across the file. Despite limited reach and movement, Sara looked through the file, quickly skimming over it, taking in the legal jargon. "All that's listed under new developments is a new look into my alibi." Lexine nodded, "They found it." Sara blinked, "Found it? How do you find a phone call, Lex? Why did Catherine suddenly remember making it?" Lexine blew out a sigh, "As much as it kills me to admit it, I think she'd better explain it herself."

* * *

Taking an obvious cue, Cathierne moved to step into the room. She looked over her shoulder and found that unlike herself, Sofia had not even flinched. "You coming, Lieutenant? I believe your orders included that you or one of your Detectives have to be with me." The blonde woman didn't even spare her a glance. "I'll watch from here."

She could have said a thousand things. Sofia had fought hard for Sara, but now it was as if she didn't want to see her. It was a puzzling thing, something she would have like to take the time to investigate. She did not, however, have the time or the patience to do so at the moment. Sara had turned and was looking dead at them through the mirror. "Fine."

It gave her the oddest sensation of de ja vous, walking into the interrogation room. Sara watched her, with wary eyes. This time, though, there was no screaming, no demands. Both of them were silent and not a word was spoken until she took her seat across the table from Sara. She could have wasted time with niceties. She could have asked how she was healing or some other mundane thing. That wasn't how their relationship worked. It never had been that way. She got straight to the heart of matters. "The phone call you received from me was a fake." Few things had ever shocked Sara. Right up until the end, Catherine couldn't really recall a time when something had completely blown her away. Hank and his cheating - should she tell Sara that he had been killed when a junkie had gone berserk on the EMT's rig? - and maybe a handful of other few and far between instances had shocked her. It was a strange thing to see the woman's eyes go wide and her jaw drop just a little. "Lexi said they found it?" Catherine nodded and with a few touches of her stylus to her Digital Notebook, queued it up to play. "Does this sound familiar?" The room was quickly filled with their recorded voices. She watched Sara's face as it played. Brown eyes were distant, caught up in the past. She obviously didn't need the recording, she remembered the conversation word for word. When it ended, she looked up, "Right, they found it, but as you so kindly pointed out at trial, even if there had been a call, the evidence weighed too heavily against me to make it even viable, especially since there was no one to verify that it ever happened." Those were, Catherine mused, her words exactly. "Listen to it when we filter out the voices." Another sequence of taps and the strange, garbled sounds of background noise filled the small room. Sara's head tilted and her eyes narrowed. Her brows bunched together and when it stopped Sara looked at her. "Back ground keeps changing. You can hear traffic one second, people's voices another, I think I heard the buzz of ALS, gunfire, but there's something else in there too, something constant." She was still quick, still a CSI. Catherine nodded, "That was your side of the conversation, Keith isolated it, Chopin." Sara nodded, the face of the prisoner had disappeared and Catherine could see the CSI that she had been so familiar with. Unconsciously, Sara reached up, moving both hands together because of the cuff, and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "If that was my side of the conversation, the constant changes were on yours." Catherine nodded again, "Keith broke it down; there are nineteen shifts in background." Sara frowned, "So someone pieced together words and phrases to make it sound like I was talking to you?" She had gotten it in one, but like everyone else, she seemed supremely confused. "That's impossible, how could anyone have known what I would have said." Catherine had thought about that too. "That's what makes it so strange. At first we thought you might have planted it, to backup your story."

Lexine immediately began to speak, almost shouting, demanding that Sara say nothing, and telling Catherine that hearsay would not fly in any court or with her. Sara held up a hand. "Where did you find it, oh and who's Keith?" Catherine blinked, and found herself explaining the updates, and describing Keith. By the time they'd gotten to the point where Keith had decoded the message, she realized that she had spoken to Sara in the same way she had Greg and Nick. Like she was a friend who had moved away. She supposed that it would have been very much the same conversation if Sara had moved back to San Francisco. Wasn't she supposed to hate Sara? Her inner musings were cut off by the woman, "Okay, so it was on the AV lab computers. I had access to them, of course. Did you check time stamps and compare them to my time sheets or my statements?"

It was strange, to hear Sara like this again. It sounded like she was about to chase a lead down to the ground, to break a case wide open. If she closed her eyes, she could have believed they were at the lab and not in an interrogation room with Sara chained down to the table.

"We did. There are actually three time stamps. When the first program, with my stolen voice clips were arranged and put together. The second time stamp is when the call was made and the whole conversation was saved, and the third is when the whole program was laid into a virus that idled in the computers until we stumbled onto it."

* * *

She had never been a slouch when it came to computers. She had always rather enjoyed using them. She and Archie had spent hours together, going over videos or running simulations. They'd gotten into HALO battles and he had taught her how to outwit the annoying little blocks Ecklie had put on the lab computers so she could check her personal email when she wanted to. Three timestamps, it sounded like a lot of work, work that she wouldn't have been able to pull off without a manual or Archie (they were practically the same thing)

"Same day?"

Catherine nodded, "And you have an iron clad alibi for two of the times." Sara quirked an eyebrow, Catherine telling her she had an alibi; that was new. "What was I doing?" Catherine opened the files, "When it was put together, at two-sixteen, you were with about three-hundred other people, at Super Dave's Wedding Reception." The memory of David Phillips' wedding made a smile a bit, "I should be on Archie's video." She shook her head and made her face go blank again, this was not the time to reminisce. "The second timestamp, I couldn't have been on both sides of the conversation." Catherine shrugged, "Technically you could have been, it would make more sense than the other option, but the call was routed through the AV Lab's computers and back then you couldn't use your password to access the computers if your weren't on the clock." Sara nodded, "Yeah." Catherine flipped a page in her notes, "And the third timestamp was made at eleven pm." Sara scowled, "You're not going to try to say _that_ was me, right?" She had been under guard, already a suspect at the crime scene at eleven.

Catherine stared down at her DN, "No." The conversation paused, and they both fell quiet. She didn't have anything else yet, but there was so much to say, and Catherine didn't know how to begin.


	20. Chapter XIX: Missed You

_Chapter XIX_

_Missed You_

Five years, five years and she had kept her word, no matter how much she had wanted to break it. She had never visited Sara in jail. It was one of her many failings. Her main failing, of course, was allowing Sara to end up here in the first place. Jim had told her it wasn't her fault, and she knew that he was right. It didn't stop the guilt, though. She had kept working, chasing down leads, and solving other cases. It wasn't that she had burnt out or couldn't cut it in Homicide; she had just found a slightly different calling. Cold Cases suited her. They challenged her; they gave her a feeling of completion. She solved cases for victims who had been all but forgotten. She brought closure for families who had given up hope. It hadn't been, as her mother called it, a coward's move. She genuinely enjoyed the job.

Standing there, watching Sara interact with Catherine and Lexi, it made her smile. Jail had not destroyed Sara. It had scared her, jaded her, made her harder and more mysterious than ever before. It changed, but not destroyed, her. When Catherine finished, and rose, she moved. Catherine came out the door and she went in.

It seemed like no one, save for Lexine, had anticipated the move. Catherine whirled around, trying to see what was going on, and Sara's sentence died off half way into a word.

* * *

Beside her Lexine said she'd be back in a minute or two, but it didn't register in her mind. She had changed, five years worth of change, yet she was still Sofia Curtis, and she was standing right there. Their gazes were locked, and she didn't know what Sofia was thinking, but her thoughts were immediately whisked away, lost into memories. 

_February 2007_

_She hated the visiting windows; it made her feel like an animal on display in a zoo. The guard motioned for her to sit and the woman on the other side of the Plexiglas barrier motioned for her to pick up the phone. She cradled the black plastic phone against her orange clad shoulder and took in the picture. Sofia was dressed in her usual attire, a button down shirt, and she supposed slacks. Her hair fell over her shoulders and she was sporting a small smile. She knew that if the woman stood, she would see the gold detective's shield hooked to her belt. Her smooth alto came through the line, matching up almost perfectly with the movement of her lips. "Sara." _

_She shouldn't be here, that was the overwhelming thought that was rushing through her mind. "You shouldn't be here."  
Sofia pushed a strand of blonde hair back, securing it behind her ear, "You say that a lot."_

The Bell Shooting, Sofia had been accused then, and hadn't she done everything in her power to make the woman feel alone, like she didn't care one way or another if she was guilty or innocent. She had been innocent, though. Sara could remember the sudden rush of relief when she'd realized that it had been impossible for Sofia to have fired the shot that had killed her fellow officer. Now, here the woman was, comforting her in her greatest time of need. Why? What had she done to deserve this kindness? She didn't know, but she was grateful for it. She tried to smile, "Well, someone has to look out for you, Sofia." Sofia tilted her head to the side, "You too."

Was that it? Did Sofia see herself as her protector? All she could say was, "Yeah."

Sofia smiled at her, "How are you holding up?" She found herself shrugging. She didn't want to tell Sofia that she was scared out of her mind, or that every time she closed her eyes she saw Gil dead. She didn't want to tell the woman who was going so far above and beyond the call of duty for her that these little visits were the only thing keeping her from going completely out of her head. They sat for a moment, neither of them speaking. They both knew what was happening on Monday. The jury was going to come back, with a verdict and they both knew what it was going to be.

"It's not too late to take a deal." She was right, of course, Lexi had been begging her to plead from the first day. "No, I won't confess to a crime I didn't commit." She watched anger bloom on Sofia's face. Blue eyes sparked and red took over the pale expanse of skin that made up her neck and cheeks. "We're not talking about guilt, innocence or your damned pride here, Sara." Sofia's fist, complete with white knuckles, hit the barrier between them hard enough to shake it. "We're talking about your **life.**"

She knew that, oh God, she knew that. "What life?"  
They had taken it all away from her. Her career, her friends, her freedom; every single thing that had defined her had been ripped away from her. When she looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself anymore. The fist on the other side of the glass spread out, fingers reaching. Sofia's voice was heavier now, it sounded more desperate, more afraid, than it had before. "**Please** Sara." Without thinking about it, she found her hand lifting. She pressed her palm to the glass, mirroring Sofia's position. The glass was cold and institutional; the warmth of Sofia's hand didn't reach hers. Her eyes closed, she wanted to feel the connection with the other woman, she wanted that warmth so badly.

"_The verdict is coming back tomorrow." Though her chest was tight, she drew in a deep breath, "When… if it comes back guilty, I want you to promise me something." Sofia's voice, unsteady and raspy, reached her ears, "What?" The next words burnt her throat as she pushed them out. _

"_Don't come back." _

_There was a beat of silence, then Sofia's outraged _**_"WHAT?"_**

She brought_the image of Sofia's face to her mind's eye: cast in shadow, her eyes shattered and dark after the Bell Shooting. She had been searching for help, desperate for someone to talk to. Both she and Gil had pushed her away. Her career had been in shambles, she had been torn to pieces. "I won't let you destroy your career." It sounded, just like before, cold and impersonal. She might as well recommend a psychologist while she was at it. She opened her eyes and found herself staring at Sofia's face. It was twisted into what was almost a snarl. _

"**Fuck** my career."

She should have expected as much. "**No**, that's exactly what you **don't** need to do." She searched for the words, but couldn't seem to find the ones that would explain exactly what she needed to say. "You're the only one who's been behind me this whole time. Like you said, how many friends do I have outside of work. I-I want you to go on. Put all of this shit behind you, Sofia. Forget me." Sofia's eyes softened with emotion or unshed tears, Sara didn't know. She did know that she wanted to reach past the barrier between them and comfort her. It seemed so blasphemous, the way her heart bled for the other woman, so soon after Gil had died.

Sofia's rough voice sounded off again, "How am I supposed to do that?"

She didn't know. "You will. You have to." She could hear the desperation in her own voice. So many lives had been torn apart with this, she wanted one person to be able to walk away unscathed, she wanted that one person to be Sofia. "I'm signing a form, no visitors."

Sofia shook her head, "What if I write?" It almost sounded like a challenge. "I won't reply." Sofia smirked, "That won't stop me." She laughed, actually chuckled a bit, "Why aren't I surprised?" Sofia smiled at her again, "I know you didn't do this." It was such a simple statement, but to hear from someone who wasn't her lawyer, it threatened to bring tears to her eyes. "That makes three of us." Sofia tilted her head to the side, "Three?" The tears threatened to spill over but she swallowed them back down, forcing herself to stay calm. Her stomach churned and knotted together uncomfortably. "You, me, and Gil." She heard the guard tell her their time was up, but she couldn't seem to get her legs to move to stand. He helped her along the way by jerking her by the arm. On the other side of the glass, Sofia hit her feet, "HEY!" Sara touched the glass again, "Sofie?" She could see her throat working, swallowing, "Sar?"

Palm flat against the glass, Sara smiled, "I'll miss you."

Her last sight of Sofia - she'd never looked back when they'd announced the guilty verdict - was of the woman standing with her hand pressed to the glass of the visitor's barrier.

Five years later and she was standing right there, no barrier. All the things she'd thought of saying, for years and all she could choke out was, "You've changed your hair." Pathetic.

* * *

Sara had lost weight. Lexine had told her as much. Sara had stuck to her vegetarian guns in prison. Some would call it conviction, Sofia called them as she saw them, Sara was just as hard headed as she had ever been. She swept over the other woman, taking everything in, the scars, the chains. "I figured you could use a friendly face after dealing with Catherine." She was rewarded by one of Sara's Mona Lisa Smiles. "Let's see it, then." Sofia cocked a brow, "It?" Sara grinned again, "The Lieutenant's shield, Sofia." She grinned, and unhooked it from her belt and held it out, "It's shiny and it gives me the power to order other people around." Sara smiled, "Sounds like fun." She sat down in the chair directly across from Sara, the one the Catherine had so recently vacated. "It also gives me the power to work the cases I chose." She smiled and the smile only grew bigger when Sara joined her.

Author's Note: I rather liked that part, it was one of the first scenes that came to ind when I started laying out this story.


	21. Chapter XX: Open Minds

_Chapter XX_

_Open Minds_

She couldn't stand it. She couldn't stand watching Sara talk to Sofia like that. Like they were friends who hadn't seen each other in a while, not like a Lieutenant of the LVPD and a Prisoner of the State of Nevada. Not like enemies, not like she and Sara had been. Even when she had been caught up in the evidence, she had been careful, defensive; treating Catherine like an enemy; like the CSI who had worked to put her away. Of course, that was exactly what Catherine had done to her.

The coffee machine - one that had to be almost as old as Lindsey - had spit out something resembling coffee but the cream had been non existent and there was no sweetener to be found so she had to drink the stale, bitter brew untainted. They were in all the way now, past the point of no return. The papers had reported on it; the Sheriff, Mayor and Governor had all chimed in their opinions and CNN had already called her for her statement. What was she supposed to say? 'I think I helped frame her?'

Catherine floated around in her own head, trying to rearrange the facts, to see whatever it had been that she had missed five years before. She watched the trustees, the inmates who were neither dangerous nor under suspicion for any current wrong doings, mop the floors.

"You better not be screwing with Sara's head." Catherine twisted around, ready to scream for the guards. The woman looking at her, though, mop in hand, didn't look like she was about to claw her eyes out though. "What's it to you?" The woman leaned the mop against the wall and crossed her unbound arms. "You don't recognize me, do you? Well, we only crossed paths a couple of times, you know my Dad." The faint accent finally broke through. She only knew one person from New Jersey. "Ellie? Ellie Bra-" The woman shook her head, "Easy on the last name there." Catherine crossed her own arms, "Still above recognizing your father, still hate him?" The girl, well Ellie, was around thirty now, so she was no longer a girl, shook her head. "No. Look, that's not the point, but as he played a big part in putting a lot of these women away, his name isn't exactly popular around here." She sighed, "I'm not half as strong as Sara is; I couldn't take all the attacks." The younger woman's eyes went distant for a moment, as if remembering something. "I just want to know if you're for real."

She had never known Ellie Brass to look out for anyone other than Ellie Brass. Warrick had mentioned something about another girl, but the last time she had crossed paths Ellie she had been trying to pilfer her father's pension while he was teetering on the razor thin line between life and death.

"What are you doing here?" The woman, who had obviously not lost all of the attitude that had disappointed her father time and time again, rolled her eyes. "Well I came for the four star meals and stayed on for the Off Broadway shows." Ellie chucked to herself and pushed a strand of hair out of her face, "I'm serving eighteen months for my third DUI. I'm on my last three, but this isn't about me." Catherine looked at the woman before her. She didn't see track marks on her pale arms and her eyes seemed clear and steady.  
"Well?" Ellie waited.

She couldn't believe she was doing this, explaining herself to Ellie Brass of all people. What was more amazing was that she was glad for a somewhat kind ear. "It's for real." Ellie's chin shot up and for a moment, Catherine saw a little bit of her father in her, "What are her chances?"

What were Sara's chances? "I don't know yet, but we're working on it." That seemed to satisfy the other woman. "Just so you know, she's taken more than one hit in your name." Catherine's eyebrow shot up, "Excuse me?" Ellie picked her mop back up, "Like the woman who jumped her yesterday, Sheena Marks. Sound familiar?" It did, Catherine had worked the Marks case. The woman had ran over her college professor for the failing grade the Art History Professor had given her. "She had a beef to settle with CSI and Sara Sidle is the closest thing to you she could find. If I hadn't-" Ellie turned away, "I've got to get back to work." She pushed the mop bucket along and began to swish the water along the walkway, "You know that old saying, it takes one to know one? I'm guilty, most people here are, and Sara can look into every one of our eyes and not see herself in them."

She pushed the mop along, and turned the corner, leaving Catherine there. She pondered the woman's words, and thoughts. Prison had made Ellie Brass wise, or perhaps some of the people the retired Captain's daughter had met in prison made her so. It didn't matter, who would take the word of a con anyway? Still, the sentiments stuck with her. So did her question, what were Sara's chances?

* * *

Fawn munched on a handful of popcorn, the only thing she had eaten all night, and looked over the papers she had in her hand. "This private detective was pretty thorough. I mean, did anyone think to look at Sara's on board GPS?" On the couch, Greg looked up from his DN, "We didn't even know her car had GPS on it." He shrugged, "Her Denali had it, but she took her personal car." Fawn leafed through the file's pages. "Her personal car was a Mazda 6, in black, pretty swanky car for a CSI. She must have put in some major over time for it." Greg put down his DN and chuckled, "If you look up workaholic in the dictionary, Sara's picture is right there. She maxed out on overtime so many times it was crazy. One time she and I had maxed out together. We'd been working a crazy couple of cases, the disappearing jogger and then the Nazi case and when we pulled this high profile wedding murder." 

Fawn's head snapped up. "Go back, what did you just say?" The man frowned, "The Nazi Case, it was one of the worst-"  
Annoyed, Fawn waved her hand to silence him. "No, before that." He sipped his coffee, "The Disappearing Jogger? We found her, dead twenty four hours later." Fawn wasn't even listening anymore, she was flipping through the Detective's notes. "Jogger, jogger, I know I saw something about a jogger. HA! Jogger!" Greg stood and she lowered the folder to point it out. "The suspect mentioned, in several accounts, a jogger. She, apparently, almost hit her when she backed up to leave the Town House." Greg shrugged, "It was a residential area, some people jog at night." Fawn nodded, "Female joggers dressed in dark clothes with, and I quote, 'Long dark hair.'" The petite CSI paced the room and bit her lip, "Back then only a limited amount of the hair samples were actually tested, right?" As DNA was his area of expertise, Greg nodded, "Yes, but all of the hair was phenotypically the same, dark and straight, Sara's hair." Fawn's smile grew wider, "Yes, but Sara Sidle's hair was cosmetically straitened. In its natural form, her hair would have curl or wave to it, wouldn't it?"

* * *

Warrick, Nick, and Gillian (when she wasn't working her own case) went back through the crime scene photos and the collected fingerprints. There had been several smudges on the knife's handle. Not unidentified smudged fingerprints or smudged partials, just smudges. "No ridge detail, not even a warped loop line." Warrick shrugged, "If there was someone else handling the knife, they were wearing gloves." Nick nodded, "We still have the knife?" Warrick nodded and located the still-bagged kitchen knife. "Signed and sealed by Catherine herself." Nick grinned, "We couldn't test it for latex trace back in the day." Warrick followed the Texan's train of thought, "But they didn't have Automatic Recognition and Trace Specific Technology back then." They high-fived and Warrick couldn't help but grin, "God Bless Archie and that Nerdy Brain of his." 

They headed to the trace lab, ready to talk to the tech, Robin Hennessey, and within fifteen minutes, the knife's handle was being evaluated on a microscopic level. Any stray compounds that didn't belong on the steel handle would be immediately located, isolated and identified. When Robin presented them with the results, positive for latex and an alcohol based cleansing agent of some kind, Robin said it was probably safe to assume it was some kind of hand sanitizer, the two men grinned. It wasn't much, but they were slowly building evidence behind Sara's story.

Author's Note: Good news, bad news time. The good news is that the story is moving along quite well. I've got several very good chapters ready to be beta-read and posted. This is where the bad news comes in, said chapters are stored on my computer...that sort of crashed and is going to be in the shop for an undetermined period of time. So what I'm really trying to say is: It's not you, it's me and I think we need to take a break.


	22. Chapter XXI: Caged

Author's Note: I am back! A month and a large sum of money and I'm back and better then ever. Well, my computer is better then ever, I'm just broke and creativly back-logged. I've got a couple of thanks to hand out. To Mo, the local computer guru for finally squeezing my precious PC in; and to Jenn for listening to me ramble, complain and babble without too many complaints.

While I can't promise daily updates (yet) I am working on getting a comfortable buffer of chapters written and hope to work out a system by next week.

So thanks for the patience, enjoy the story and send lots and lots of reviews because I 've missed hearing from everyone!

_Chapter XXI_

_Caged_

Catherine, for the third day in a row, turned her gun over to the guard, checked her purse, walked through the metal detector and listened to a bored woman recite the rules. Sofia, she understood, was already inside and Gillian was still being walked through the procedure behind her. The younger woman was none too quiet about how she felt about the procedure either. "Oh for _fucks_ sake! These women can make a knife out of a toothbrush and you want to make sure I don't take in a _paper clip_?!" Ah, to be so young and spirited again.  
She might have let Gillian argue with the guards, but she was tired and frankly, she needed Gillian with her and not in a holding cell. "Gillian." She said the other woman's name in the same tone and pitch as she might have Lindsey's. Gillian immediately pivoted and upon seeing Catherine's scowl and crossed arms, fell silent. A few minutes later, they were heading towards the interview room. Catherine hardly even needed the guard to lead her; the route was becoming familiar, almost routine. What she hoped that neither of them got used to were the catcalls, accusations and curses that flew their way as they walked.

"Hey baby!"

"FUCK YOU, WILLOWS!"

"Looking to trade that model in for something younger and prettier there, honey?"

"Bitch Whore!"

"Nothing wrong with a lady with some _experience_."

"Pigs: Fuck 'em, then kill 'em!"

"A blonde and a brunette, is it my birthday already!"

The further along they went, the cruder it became. One smart ass screamed out a line from _Silence of the Lambs_ and unlike Clarice, Gillian had a very vocal reaction, quickly followed by a prominent display of her middle finger. The guards demanded that the prisoners quiet down, but the damage had been done. The corridors echoed with their calls. Catherine heard more than one threat of violence between the lewd comments and offers. Once, years ago, she might have been right there with Gillian, spitting mad and throwing curses right back at the prisonors. Now, she just wanted to get to the interrogation room, where there would be a little bit of sanity.

* * *

She knew Catherine was on her way long before the woman arrived. It was almost amusing. The girls did so enjoy "talking to" the visitors as they came by. In the chair beside her, Lexine only snorted and leaned against the wall, toothpick in her mouth, Sofia muttered something to herself. For herself, Sara sat in her chair and tried to pretend that she was sitting because she chose to, not because she was chained down. It wasn't working all that well, especially since the belt that connected the chains together was rubbing against her still-healing cut. She looked across the room at the one-way mirror and checked her appearance one last time. Not that she could do much with herself in her current situation, but she absolutely hated looking unkempt, and Catherine had a way of making her feel like that even if she had gone for a week long spa treatment and makeover: she would still fall short of some invisible line.

One of the guards, Miguel, shouldered open the door, and stepped aside. Sara had always liked that this room was an actual room - there were no bars - and if she focused hard enough, she almost forgot that she was in prison, almost. Catherine came in looking as though she'd stepped out of a Vogue advertisement and was followed by a new face. It was funny, but Sara had never really thought about it, Catherine had a new team. Sofia had mentioned a couple of them in passing in her letters, but she'd never seen them. It was another sign that five years had past. She'd been out of the loop, out of the lab, for five years. The woman who was staring at her, was young. Christ, she was young, tall - Sara pegged her at around five-eight - and pretty. Black hair, pulled back in some kind of French braid, and dark eyes. She was dressed casually, in low riding jeans and a button-down shirt that had one extra button undone. It was shamelessly sexy and it fitted the bombshell image the woman had probably been shooting for. "Nice of you to join us, and who's the rookie, _Catherine Junior_?" It was one part truth and two parts smart-ass remark. From the other woman's carriage, to the sneer on her face, and not to mention the generous expanse of bared cleavage, the woman did remind her of the Catherine she had thought she'd known.

The still-unnamed woman bristled and shot her a look. Catherine blinked a few times, but quickly regained her composure. "Sara, this is CSI Gillian Rayne and Gillian, this is Sara Sidle." Ah, so Catherine Junior did have a name of her own. Did she speak too? Sara cocked an eyebrow, "Nice to meet you, I'd shake but I'm a little tied up." Gillian - Sara was pretty sure she would probably stick to calling her Junior - just glared. Catherine, probably unused to playing the role of peace-maker, sat down. "Cool it you two, I'm not here to watch you bait my CSI into a pissing match." Sara shrugged, and tried to pretend that Catherine's phrasing didn't sting. "So what are you here for?"

Despite herself, Catherine felt a grin steal across her features. "That PI your Lawyer hired chased down your old car, got the GPS off of it, and using..." Sara grinned and shot a look over at Sofia, "I _told you_ OnStar was worth the extra hundred a month." Catherine blinked, "Right. Anyway, between the GPS download and the odometer readings he took down, we calculated your path that night." Leaning against the table, Gillian blew out a breath, "Of course, since we didn't take the readings ourselves, the chain of evidence has been broken, making the calculations inadmissible in court." Catherine did a double take, what was Gillian doing? This wasn't a situation for good cop-bad cop. The woman continued though, her dark eyes narrowed, "And since the only reason we re-opened this case at all is a flimsy alibi, you better have something explosive to tell us." Sara didn't even flinch, in fact she almost looked amused. "Listen, Junior, if I had a dime for every time some _punk kid_ tried to act tough with me, I could buy and sell you, twice. I was a white hat before I put on the orange suit. You just need to keep in mind that all I _need_ is reasonable doubt to get another appeal. You're not building a case, and if you were, you'd need the DA to sign off on a registered and licensed PI and his or her testimony and or evidence. Unless the opposing counsel protests, at which point a grand jury hearing will be called to assess the eligibility, credibility and importance of said testimony and evidence, etcetera etcetera, The State of Nevada versus Daniel Rotterham, 2009." Beside her, Verona grinned, "Nicely done." Sara looked away from Gillian and back at Catherine, "Now, while Junior pouts, the grown ups can have a real conversation."

She was enjoying this, Catherine realized. Sara was honestly enjoying this. She had never known the woman to be so quick or scathing with her wit. Then again, she hadn't made knowing Sara a priority when they had worked together. Sara looked, almost hungrily, at the files they had brought in. "Sofia said you guys re-ran evidence last night."  
Catherine nodded, "How much do you know about AR?" Sara rolled her shoulders, as if she was trying to both shrug and loosen a kink, "Archie's brain child; a computer program that more or less can automatically recognize most trace matierals. According to what I've read, the hand held program picks up the most common trace molecules, GSR, blood and" Sara made a vague motion with her hands, "Other stuff. A _friend_ sent me a clipping or twenty, I read that the lab machine is like a scent dog on an atomic level."

At Sofia's smirk, Catherine figured that the Lieutenant had been in more contact with Sara than she had let on. "Exactly, and last night one of my guys ran the murder weapon through our AR central unit." Sara nodded, "Okay." Catherine felt the grin returning, "Latex." The look that came across Sara's face could only be described as baffled, befuddled and generally confused. "Latex? As in gloves? I'm pretty damn sure you picked up that knife while wearing gloves." Sara's memory was as laser honed as ever and as she pantomimed picking up something with forefinger and thumb, Catherine realized that that had been exactly how she had picked up the knife at the scene. "The latex was traced to the generic gloves that the lab _still_ uses. We order them by the crate."

Gillian, who had been watching silently, piped up again, "So you're back at square one, with nada." Sara, though, raised a single finger. "Not true. If chain of custody wasn't broken," She looked to her lawyer and Verona shook her head, "and Catherine was the only one to handle the knife, that _is_ something." Gillian looked from Catherine to Sara, "What is she getting at, Boss?" Catherine smiled, "I don't wear the lab issued gloves." Triumphant Sara smirked, "They make Catherine's delicate skin flare up and itch. She has to special order hers from some company, always has. You're telling me you didn't know that, Junior? They're great gloves, actually, I-ahem- borrowed a pair or two more than once."

The hell she had, Catherine had always kept her cache of gloves under close watch. She had a box in her kit, and _no one_ touched her kit and in her locker. "And just when did you do that, Sidle? I don't give them out like candy." A blush came up in Sara's face and her eyes darted down to the table, "Never mind." Amused now, Catherine crossed her arms, "Oh no, you opened this can of worms, Sara, cite your source." Sara looked at Lexine and at Sofia, both women shrugging. Sighing dramatically Sara shrugged, "I nabbed them out of your locker; it was when I had those nasty chemical burns on my hands from that accident in the garage on the Lockmiller case." Catherine did remember that, it had been one of the times that Grissom had been away and she had been the one that had been forced to fill out the year's worth of paperwork. "I mean, every one knows your locker combination, Catherine. Hell, you still probably use the same one now, it's Lindsey's birthday: eight, twenty-one, one." The fact that yes, she did still use that combination and that apparently everyone knew it was just a little bit disturbing. "Everyone?"

* * *

As much as Sofia enjoyed watching Sara cut Gillian Rayne down to size, they actually had a reason to be here. "The janitor knew the combination, Willows, but that's not the point. Besides that, I've been going back over the area canvas. The jogger you almost hit, no one remembered her, but I did get a matching description on a photographer from a uni's report. The killer returning to the scene of the crime, maybe." Sara frowned, "The jogger? That's a stretch isn't it?" Triumphant, Sofia bit down on her now soggy tooth pick hard enough to cause it to break, sending splinters onto her tongue. It tasted, oddly enough, like a small victory. "The hair evidence recovered from the bed? Fawn, Fawn Drex. She's the lab expert on cold cases, looked back over it. They tested a sample batch, SOP, at the time, because morphologically speaking it appeared to be the same." Sara nodded, "But?" Sofia grinned, "Going off of your mystery jogger, they took a sample and ran steam over it." Sara nodded, and pushed a curl out of her eyes, "To remove any residual styling products." Sofia nodded, "And trust me, Curls, it's pretty easy to distinguish between your hair and hers."

Catherine sighed, "It's good, but unfortunately, there were no epithelial tags or root bulbs on any of the strait hairs."

Sofia nodded, "It's a start."

* * *

Lexine sat quietly beside her, taking notes. Sara appreciated the fact that Lex let her handle herself. Sofia was right; it was a good start. That was all they had. A large circumstantial start. It was better than nothing, though. "Okay, just shooting from the hip here, but if you disregard the explainable evidence, my DNA and fingerprints at the crime scene," Crime scene, was that all it was to her now? It had been Gil Grissom's town house. A place that she had thought, at one time, she might call home. "Where does that leave the case?"

That one caused Catherine to blink, and Sara watched her blue eyes narrow. "Latent prints on the knife are out, since you testified to the fact that you unloaded the dishwasher earlier that week." Sara nodded and beside her Lexi scribbled furiously. "DNA from the bedsheets is completely out as you explained why it was there." Sofia nodded, "The bloody clothes are taken as is, without spatter or cast off, there just bloody. It goes to support Sara's story."

Catherine looked up, "I think that puts us back at square one." Sara felt herself smiling, "No, we've still got the holy trinity." Across from her, Catherine nodded and held up three fingers, "Suspect, Scene and Victim."

The gears were turning now, Sara could see it: Catherine was thinking. "Go from the knowns and work our way out?" Catherine nodded, "Look into Gil's enemies, your enemies, hell the lab's enemies." Lexine stopped writing, "According to your original case reports, you never ran the case through VICAP." Catherine nodded, "Yeah."

Their time ran out, and Miguel led her back to her cell, but Sara had a good feeling. They had made definite progress.

* * *

Walking out, back past the prisonors again, Catherine had a lot to think about. Beside her, Gillian, Junior as Sara had dubbed her, was silent, almost angry. Of course, Gillian was always moody when Fawn came out on top of one of their arguments, the girl hated to lose. "You okay?" The raven-haired woman sighed, "I hate prisons. They always make me edgy; make me think of shitty times, you know? I hate how they make me feel, like I'm in a cage." Catherine nodded, and wondered exactly what "shitty times" Gillian was referring to. They were passing the Law Library when the rolling of wheels caught Catherine's attention. She remembered the face, or more correctly, the wheel chair, but the name escaped her. Some ADA who had shot her husband. The blonde didn't pay them all that much attention, but then she took a second look. She did a double take, in fact. Her blue eyes went wide and locked on them, following them out.

Catherine didn't have time to wonder what that was about. All she knew was that she had another interminably long drive back to Vegas. In the back of her head, she was replaying a statement, something that she'd overheard Curtis telling Verona, over and over again.

"It would be easier to move one woman once instead of four women every damn day."


	23. Chapter XXII: Change of Scenery

_Chapter XXII_

_Change of Scenery_

The routine was good, the routine was solid; if the routine was interrupted or changed, something was wrong. If the routine was interrupted at two in the morning, something was very, very wrong. She'd barely had time to pull her shirt over her thin tank top and slide on her shoes before they were slapping the cuffs and chains on her. They walked her through the corridors quickly and as quietly as possible. It was a rare thing, for there to be silence, but in the wee hours of the morning, the inmates of the Nevada State Women's Correctional Facility were all tucked into their bunks, sleeping soundly. Late night scuffles and sex had ended hours earlier, the junkies had slipped into their withdrawal, fevered unconsciousness and even the truly devoted night owls had fallen to Morpheus's power.

There had been a time when this would have been her work day. She would have already had lunch, and would probably be in the lab, piecing together some puzzle. Catherine and her team were probably doing that. She could see it in her mind's eye. The light hum of the labs, the occasional round of gunfire from Bobby's lab and the ping of a computer somewhere printing out test results. She could all but feel the microscope's fine focus knob between her fingers and smell the lingering traces of print powder. It was like losing a limb; she sill had phantom pains to accompany the empty part of her soul that her work had filled.

The route they were leading her along was not a happy one. When her feet passed from concrete to carpet, a sick burning started under her breastbone. They were taking her to Rhett's office, a place no inmate wanted to see. One of the night guards, Vic, knocked on the heavy wood door and they waited. Cold sweat, part from the pain of her ulcer making itself known and part from fear, started to pour off of her. Her heartbeat increased when a grumble came from behind the door. She squeezed her cuffed hands into fists convulsively. She hated being afraid, especially of Rhett. Even a dog, though, would fear the hand that had struck it down, time and time again, it was simply a basic defense mechanism. You didn't trust that which hurt you. She had learned that years ago, as a child. You could love them, you could want to please them, but you could never trust them.

The door opened and the air-conditioned air enveloped her. Unused to the temperature change, goosebumps rose up on Sara's skin. It was funny how one could forget, or simply store away, the little things. She had become used to the prison temperature that seemed to always hover at eighty-five, be it day or night. The window unit in Rhett's office was set to sixty-nine, but it could have been twenty-nine as far as Sara was concerned. She stood stiffly in the middle of the room, looking at the back of Rhett's plush leather office chair. The smell of coffee permeated the cool air and made her mouth water. She hadn't had coffee, good coffee, in so long. After an indeterminable amount of time, Rhett spoke, "Take a walk, Vic, I'm sure Sidle won't be causing me any trouble." The khaki clad guard grumbled something and left the room. She heard the door click shut behind him and knew that she was alone, in the lion's den.

The room was not all that big, the size of any normal office, but it was decorated to the nth degree. Rhett had probably been shooting for something between trailer-tacky and plain old creepy. Dead animals, ranging from ducks to deer, were hung on the wall, along with old sepia toned photographs, faded with age but still rather well preserved. From the stern faces and clothing, she would guess they were Civil War Era. How Rhett had gotten his hands on such valuable antiques was beyond her. Then again, judging from the image's subject matter, no museum would have been able to display them in a child's eye line. Hangings, gruesomely frozen in time. The justice of the Old West, she supposed.

"You admiring my collection there, Sidle?" She turned her head and found that while her attention had been occupied, Rhett had swung around. The window he'd been facing was still dark, dawn was no where in sight. "My ancestor, Josiah Rhett, he kept order in the West while it was still wild and untamed. Do you know what he was?" Probably inbred was Sara's immediate answer, but she wisely kept that to herself. "He was a Pinkerton Detective, the best there was." Masking her emotions had always been her forte and it was a good thing. Because laughing out loud at Rhett's family history probably wasn't the best thing to do. Rhett's illustrious family history had been started by a thug who had terrorized simple farmers for the expanding railroad companies. The apple didn't fall far from the tree on that one. Her eyes darted back to the wall. "How interesting." She could hear the hinges of his chair squeak as he leaned back. "Keeping justice has been in my family for generations. During World War II, my grandfather, Heath Rhett, he kept the Jap spies in line here on the home front." He had to be kidding; American Japanese Internment Camps had been little better than Nazi Death Camps. She stood there, though, looking at him, pretending to be interested. She wanted to know what was going on and a look at the truly messed up and once again, probably inbred family tree did not warrant a two in the morning march to his little office of horrors. She ached to cross her arms over her chest, but settled for cocking an eyebrow. "What does any of this have to do with me?" He sat back up, letting his truly ugly cowboy boots slide off the corner of the desk and hit the floor. "It's in my blood, Sidle. You know how that goes, blood will out." He came closer and smirked as he poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. "How is your Mama doing anyway? I'm sure she's proud of you. Her baby girl following in her footsteps."

Anger, horrified and self righteous, bloomed in her chest. His words were like snakebites, the pain was sharp and acute, and it spread poison through her veins, infecting her. "I'm not Laura." her voice wasn't as solid as she would have liked. Probably because she was seconds from calling him a bastard. If she did that, she would be sent to solitary, Rhett's special cell, she was sure. To be antiquated and cliché, he'd send her to "The Hole". It would be worth it, save for the fact that if she was in the hole, she couldn't have visitors, and she desperately wanted to stay abreast of what was happening with the case. So, she bit her tongue until she could taste the coppery tang of blood in her mouth. Rhett chuckled, "Don't lie to yourself, Sidle; I know you're too smart for that. You went to Harvard, you have a fancy-ass degree for all the good it does you here." He was leaning in closer now. She could smell cheap chewing tobacco and the expensive coffee on his breath. "Blood tells, Sidle. No matter what you've convinced those idiots in Vegas, blood tells. It was your destiny to become a murdering bitch just like your Mommy. When you get back, it's my destiny to put the needle back in your arm _myself_. They won't get you out or prove you innocent. You're as fucking guilty as sin." Get back? What the hell was Rhett talking about. "And where am I going?" His beady eyes narrowed, "Other than Hell's hottest basement? Your lawyer pulled a fast one. You're going back to Vegas PD's custody until this crock-of-shit scheme you and that CSI bitch cooked up is straitened out and forgotten.

The burn in her chest changed. It was still painful, but it was a different sort of pain. She recognized it as drive. She'd spent hours popping Tums while pouring over evidence at the lab. This was what hope felt like. This was the feeling she'd always had when the answer was close. Surely, Catherine wouldn't do this unless they had uncovered something _important_. No, this had to be Sofia's doing. Catherine wouldn't have minded keeping her out of the loop. Sofia was doing what she had promised so many years before.

"_I'll get you out of this hellhole, Sara, I swear I will. One way or the other, I'll get you out of here."_

If she had to come back later, and God knows the odds were more in favor of that than not, she would deal with the repercussions then, but as for now -  
She leaned closer, "When I'm released from this hell hole, I'll slap a suit on you so fast you'll spin. I'll uncover this place for the pit it really is, and just for the kicker, Rhett, I'll turn over everything I know. _Everything._ She could see the anger, and the little spark of fear in his eyes and he stood to his full height, which still made him shorter than her. "You don't know _nothing_." Her mouth quirked, "I know where you buried Julia Eastman and Kate Armstrong." The shove came fast and it came hard. Her hands were cuffed at her waist, useless. She stumbled and ultimately fell backwards. She hit the edge of the bookcase with her head and saw stars dance across her eyes. She sucked in her stolen breatha, but immediately lost it when the toe of his boot hit her side with all the force of a soccer player shooting at his team's fiercest rival's goal. The pain was all consuming. The wound was only a few day's old and she could feel the stitches bulge and tear. She could feel blood start to seep out of the gash. She didn't scream, though. So the sadistic bastard reared back and let her have it again. On the fourth kick, she finally let out the hoarse scream he wanted from her. His meaty hand, complete with thick caullosed fingers, grabbed the orange collar of her shirt and tugged at her. "Get up." She fought to stand up, early training made it possible for her to stand despite the room spinning around. He pulled her face close to his; they were nose to nose. His pudgy fingers had a vice like grip on her face, she didn't doubt that there would be bruises"You don't know _nothing,_ do you understand me?" With words like 'blunt force trauma' and 'internal bleeding' bouncing around in her head, she could only think of one thing to say, "Fuck you." The slap across her face stung; it was a solid blow that split her lip and made her ears ring. "VIC!" The guard opened the door and stepped in, "Yeah?" Rhett sneered and pushed her over to the other man. "Get her out of here. Stop by the infirmary and let the Doc fix her up. I don't want the fucking bleeding hearts down in Vegas on our asses because she ran into a door." Vic nodded gravely and pulled her along.

All in all, she had gotten off lucky.

* * *

Sara wasn't there. That was bad. There was no reason for her to not be in the line up for breakfast. Melissa twisted in her chair, trying to see what, if anything, there was to see. The last time Sara hadn't been present for breakfast, it had been because she had been beaten so badly she couldn't walk. Before that, well Julia and Kate had... She couldn't think of it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw an out-of-place flash of orange. Sara, in full chains, being led down the corridor that led to the infirmary. Her lip was freshly split and there were dark bruises forming on her face, but she was walking. "What the hell?" One of the guards scowled at her, "Move it, Wheels." She did, but slowly, "Where are they taking Sara?" The woman shrugged, "Back to Vegas, her lawyer pulled a string or two or something."

Oh hell.

She couldn't let this happen.

Sara didn't know yet.

She hadn't had a chance to tell her yet.

She was being led right in to the Lion's Den, blindfolded. She wouldn't have a chance.

The route the guards were, invariably, leading Sara down, would intersect with hers around the next corner. Melissa could feel sweat pop up on her palms. She _had_ to tell Sara before it was too late.

Just as expected, she saw them ahead. "SARA!"

The brunette turned but could not stop. They passed each other before Melissa could get anything out. Knowing that this was a life and death situation, she brought the chair to a stop and started to back up, rolling over one or two sets of toes without a second thought.

The guard did a double take, "Get back in line, Winters!" She didn't have time for this. She rolled back towards the corridor. She caught the other woman's eye again, "Sar, it's" Someone jerked the handles of her chair hard enough to almost throw her out of it. Damn it.

"Sara!"

Before she could get the words, the words that Sara desperately needed to know, the woman had rounded the corner and was gone. The guard was yelling something at her and wheeling her back to her cell. No breakfast for her and no help for Sara. "Christ."

* * *

The ride was long, and despite the early hour, miserably hot. She was chained to the bus's seat, with only the driver and a guard for company. Even if she didn't particularly like the music pouring out of the bus's crackling, aged speakers, she had been starved for it and suddenly even twangy country was her favorite kind. As the miles of desert rolled past her through tinted windows, more scenery then she had seen in years, her mind wandered. She might have floated that way the whole way back, save for the damn radio.

"_Sometimes it feels like this world is spinning faster, then it did in the old days. So naturally we have more natural disasters from the strain of the fast pace..."_

The upbeat guitars and fiddles hit her like another kick to the side. She could clearly see Nick in the passenger seat singing along to the song.

"_I miss Mayberry: Sittin' on the porch, drinking ice cold cherry coke. Where everything was black and white."_

She could remember Nick sitting there, staring at her, when she'd been on the stand. There had been none of his usual cheerfulness or his easy smiles.

She closed her burning eyes and blocked out the sounds of the song until it faded away, only to be replaced by a perky radio personality. This long, winding trip back to Vegas wasn't black and white, nothing in her life was anymore. Minutes slipped into hours and the hum of highway traffic lulled her into a stupor. The closer they got to the city, the more nostalgia tugged at her. They finally had, she noticed, built a casino in the place where the Rampart once stood. It wasn't Sam Braun's Eclipse, she hadn't bothered to catch the name. Signs had come and they had gone. A new magician, new to her at least, was headlining at the MGM. There were so many changes, and yet, even from behind the windows, she could see that it was the same. Tacky drive-through wedding chapels, throngs of tourists, and the pickpockets and con-artists who made a dirty living off of them, it was all there. The clothes might be slightly different, but Vegas was still Vegas. The road-side attractions hadn't changed enough to have her thrown off. She had driven this route thousands of times, day and night, she could probably do it blindfolded. A new paint job, new cars outside, and they had added a new wing, but it was still the LVPD. The police station had been like another home to her. She had never spent too much time in her apartment, the lab and the station had been her places. They drove around back and she braced herself for the transfer process. She only hoped they didn't throw her around too much, she was still hurting and the Advil the on-call night doctor had given her hadn't even touched her. She was no doctor, as Dr. Adams had reminded her tersely, but she was pretty damn sure she had a couple of cracked ribs and he'd had to, as she'd known he would, sew her gash back up. The bus squeaked to a jerky halt and she sighed. Here went everything.

The guard unlocked the chains that had secured her to the seat and warned her not to try any funny stuff. She couldn't help but roll her eyes. She was at a _police station;_ some people might be stupid, or desperate enough, to try something, but she wasn't. He marched her down the steps, one hand holding her and the other resting on the butt of the gun. He all but shoved the transfer papers to the uniform that had been waiting there. The uniform whose buzzed-off haircut was so fresh his scalp was still pink, shrugged, "Hold on, the L-T will have to sign off on her." The guard grumbled about paperwork and the uniform radioed for someone. Moments later, the back door swung open to reveal Sofia, sunglasses and smirk in place. Sara smiled at the sight and might have kept smiling if not for who she saw following her out of the door.

Nick, Warrick, Greg and Catherine. For a moment, it was as if no time at all had passed. They were still the Night Shift, solid and unshakable. The moment passed and she was staring at people she hardly knew. She swallowed some burning and bitter bile. Her world was thrown off kilter in a thousand random directions, and though she was sure her mouth and throat were too tight and dry to speak, she heard herself saying, "Guys."

Author's Note: Lyrics from Rascall Flatt's _I Miss Mayberry. _I do not own said song and the snippets were used without permission. Julia Eastman and Kate Armstrong are from Season One's _Friends and Lovers. _I also went into some American history there, Pinkerton Detectives and the WWII era Japanese Internment Camps. It's all historically accurate, and if you want to find out more, visit you local library (The more you know yadda yadda yadda insert the shooting star and annoying theme song)


	24. Chapter XXIII: The Line

_Chapter XXIII_

_The Line Between Past and Present_

He could remember the first time he'd seen her. She'd found him at a casino's Black Jack table. She'd told him of Holly Gribb's death. He had, in that moment, hated her. She'd been brought in to investigate him, stayed on to replace Holly. The outsider, a work-a-holic boss's pet who seemed to get her way more often than not. She had been passionate, that much had become clear almost immediately. She had been brave, playing bait for a serial killer who liked her looks. She'd had heart, and she'd broken it time and time again over the cases that most crims wanted to forget immediately after they were closed.

How time had changed her; changed him. Warrick Brown looked at Sara Sidle - her thin form clad in penitentiary orange - and realized how deeply he was still hit by this mess. _He _was the investigator now, and she was the one who was under the microscope. He squinted at her in the morning sun light. Her lip had been freshly split and her jaw was bruised, but her head was held high. Pride had always been Sara's ultimate Achile's heel. He wondered what was going on behind her dark eyes. He'd never been able to figure that out. Not that first day, not five years ago, and certainly not today.

Had she killed Gil Grissom? He had been so sure then, but now, he wasn't. The evidence was so weak, and now, with hindsight being twenty-twenty, it was circumstantial. Was he on her side? He wasn't supposed to be. He was supposed to be on Griss's side. He had been the victim. Then again, somehow he was sure that had Griss been there, he would say that he was being too close-minded. Victims came in all shapes and sizes, and besides, he was on the evidence's side. He was supposed to collect, and analyze evidence without emotion or bias. He didn't know, though, if he would be able to look his son's and daughter in the eye again if he didn't do the right thing.

The right thing, he knew as he looked at Sara, was this. He had to - if not exonerate her - make peace with Sara Sidle. He had to say he was sorry, and if she spit on his face, it was his own fault.

* * *

How could she look so different? He'd always had an unchanged picture of her in his head. Prison had been hard on her, she had scars and even now, she sported fresh bruises. Her hair was longer and curly. Not the kind of curly she had occasionally styled it in, the nice controlled waves. It was a riot of loops and corkscrews. Her eyes seemed darker somehow, like they had seen too much. She seemed much more guarded, like she was expecting an attack. She probably was. 

In the bright sunlight, he could all but see the woman he'd worked with. Her little habit of singing while she worked, her too-wide grin when she was trying to control her gag-reflex, the way she would get caught up in an experiment.

"_I'm a scientist, I live for this."_

He could remember the calm, understanding way she had let him talk to her. About his God-awful hours in the coffin. He could remember razzing her about her 'Anti Wedding' feelings. He could remember _his_ Sara. They were separated by only a few months, age wise, but he had always thought of her as a friend, and as a little sister.

Looking at Sara now, dressed in penientary orange and in chains, he could see that woman under the scarred exterior. She might be hiding behind scars and hurt feelings, but Sara was still there and he intended to talk to her. He intended to first, apologize, and then he was going to make sure she never had to be treated like a common criminal again.

* * *

The woman who had haunted so many of his dreams, and later nightmares, didn't look like the tanned, leggy bikini model he'd made her up to be in his head. Neither was she coated in blood, screaming mad, brandishing a knife at him. He once had been able to recognize her by scent, now he could only find pieces of her here and there that he recognized. For a moment, her dark eyes met his. Years ago, he would have been intrigued, or maybe a little turned on. Now he was only ashamed. Of what he had done to her, of what he had become. He had hated her for a very long time, and for a while, had blamed her for his drugs. 

Looking at her now, he could remember the good times. The light banter of flirting, how she had helped him study up for his written and field evaluations. He could remember her bringing him his favorite Mexican food _both_ times he'd been in the hospital.

For some strange reason, he wanted to show her his 'Three Years Sober' chip and ask her if she'd read his last article. He wanted to tell her that orange wasn't her color and that he'd always liked her hair curly. He wanted his friend back. If nothing else, he would get his friend back.

* * *

"Guys." She hadn't told Sara that Nick and Greg had come back. Now she saw that the uncomfortable "family reunion" was somewhat overwhelming. Catherine sighed; this wasn't how this was supposed to go. Sara was sporting a split lip and bruises that she hadn't had the last time she'd seen the woman. 

Ellie Brass's words echoed in her head, _"She's taken more then one hit in your name." _Who had done this to Sara? Who had attacked her this time, and why? Did it matter? Sara wouldn't have even been there if she hadn't been so damn vindictive. This was Gil's justice: the woman he had loved, wrongfully accused, imprisoned, and beaten.

All the nasty epithets she had slung Sara's way all those years ago ran through her head and Catherine felt the bitter backwash of each of them scald her tongue. She stepped forward, feeling that it was her duty to do so. Her mouth was almost open, but Sofia beat her to the punch. "Sara, welcome back to Las Vegas." Sofia quickly scrawled her name on the clipboard and shoved it at the correctional officer. "You boys have a nice drive back." The guard only shrugged, apparently happy to be free of the burden of his lone prisoner, and got back on the bus. It rattled to life, backed up and drove away. Sara watched the bus drive away, and they all watched her do so. The only one who seemed to know what to do was Sofia. When the bus was only a speck in the distance, Sofia looked at the uniform. "All right, let's get Sidle in and out of the sun."

They all nodded, Catherine didn't know if it was because they agreed they should all go inside, or shock. Either-or, they went, single file into the side entrence of the PD. It gave her a strange sense of deja-vous. If only Gil poked his head around the corner, it would be just like old times; but that would never happen again.


	25. Chapter XXIV: Too Close

_Chapter XXIV_

_Too Close_

The talk of the PD and the Labs hinged on one single item: the return of Sara Sidle. Those who had been there were looked upon as gurus by those who desperately wanted to hear every single, dirty detail. Uniforms found excuses to walk down to the holding cells to get a look; techs found excuses to amble down to the water cooler to catch a new tidbit. At the center of the gossip storm, Fawn was calmly going through the computer records that VICAP had spit out. Some of the cases were older than she was. She had started by separating the solved from the unsolved, and then she had realized that she could miss something if she took that route. Hadn't the Grissom murder been classified as 'solved' until recently? Taking the resolve to look at each and every case, she prepped herself for a long double and started at the beginning again.

She had been at it for more than a few hours - the exact number escaped her - when Stephen came in. "Overtime?" She shrugged, "Just a little bit, I wanted to look over some files." The other CSI pulled up a stool. "How many cases are you looking at?" Fawn winced, "Everything within the search parameters in the last thirty years." Stephen - fondly and not-so-fondly called Scooter - let out a low whistle. "That is a lot of cases." Fawn pushed her streaky hair out of her eyes and dropped her chin onto her hands, "Tell me about it." They sat for a minute and Stephen grinned, "I'm between cases and my girlfriend is out of town; I've got nothing but time." Fawn arched an eyebrow. "Your girlfriend is always out of town, Scooter." He grinned, "Hey, she's a pilot, but she always comes back to me." Fawn could have taken that about a thousand different, slightly perverted places, but decided to leave it alone. "I'm not even going to dignify that one with a response. You want to take all the cases after the fact and I'll take all the cases before?" He grinned, "I'll go get my laptop."

* * *

Styrofoam to-go-plate in one hand and a cup of coffee in another, Sofia made her way down the long, echoing hallway that lead to the holding cells. Sara's was the last on the left - the only cell that was occupied in this particular corridor of County lock up. It was quiet. She walked quickly, boot heels clicking as she went.  
The uniform who was on guard duty gave her a look. "She's been quiet all day, Lieutenant. Easiest assignment I've ever had. Wish they were all like her." Sofia nodded and took in the picture. Sara was no more asleep than she was, but she was lying on her bunk, quiet and still. She sneaked a peek at the uniform's name plate. "Hey, Montoya, go take a coffee break." The young brunette, unwilling to argue with an unexpected break, turned on her heel. "Sure thing, Lieutenant Curtis." When Montoya's footsteps faded down the halls, Sara turned her head, "Hey." The new angle revealed that Sara's face was a mess of dark bruises. She sat up and gingerly turned her body so she could get up. Sofia didn't miss the wince when she did stand. It didn't take a detective to figure out that the woman had taken a beating, recently. Balancing the plate in one hand, she jangled the keys in the other and slid the appropriate key into the lock. Sofia pushed the door open and it squeaked on its hinges. Inside the cell was the cot that Sara had recently been on; a small, lidless toilet, a small table and chair, both bolted to the floor. A file, papers spread out, was the only thing on the table. Sofia smiled, "I thought you might be hungry."

* * *

Despite the pain, that never fully relented, she grinned, "Room service and my own personal guard, I feel spoiled." It was, to tell the truth, a big step up from where she'd lived for the last five years. She could smell bleach from the cell's last cleaning and the guard, a uniformed officer by the name of Renee, was pleasant enough. If her head and ribs would stop constantly throbbing, she would have taken the time to enjoy herself. The aromatic smells originating from the carry-out-box in Sofia's hands made her stomach growl; a not-too-subtle reminder that she had missed breakfast. 

Sofia grinned, and put the food on the table. "The best take-out Vegas has to offer and the most sugary-caffeinated thing Starbucks has on the menu." Forget modesty or pain or acting like anything other than a hungry animal, the box said Jack's. Jack's had been her favorite restaurant. It had a to-die-for Vegetarian menu. She almost whimpered aloud when she opened the box and saw the Number Two Special, her favorite. Forgetting manners, she ripped the plastic cover off the white plastic spork and shoveled an entire stuffed mushroom cap into her mouth. She closed her eyes and savored. After she had chewed and swallowed and wallowed in the glory of the taste, she opened her eyes again. Sofia was watching her with one cocked eyebrow, "Good?" The only answer she could come up with was muffled by a mouthful of fries. When she'd swallowed again she grinned a little. "Yeah. Sorry." She pushed her hair out of her eyes with the hand that wasn't holding the spork. "It's my favorite, how did you know?" Sofia leaned her long body, clad in her usual black slacks and a red turtleneck, against the bars of the door. "I didn't, Greg got it; I'm just the delivery girl."

Some time ago, that might have destroyed her appetite, but right now the early warning signs of the steady burn under her breast bone and the grinding pains in her abdomen couldn't make her stop. "You didn't tell me they were here." She watched Sofia wince just a little bit. "I thought you'd want to see them for yourself. They're here to help this time, Sara." She ran the spork around the medium sized piles of shoe string fries. "That's what I thought last time too."

Sitting here, in Vegas again, the memory of her friends looking at her like they had, was fresher; like it had only been yesterday that they had turned their backs on her. "How do I know they're not here to make sure I go back to jail?" It sounded cynical, jaded, exactly the kind of question that a convict would ask. She sighed and took a sip of the coffee and instead of Starbucks she tasted the unmistakable and achingly familiar Blue Hawaiian brew that Greg had been famous for. She couldn't count how many times she had snagged a cup or how many times he had handed her one. Could it be that simple? She wasn't sure.

In the face of great personal strife and confusion, Sara did what she had always done. "So where are we on the case?" Sofia pulled a toothpick out of her pocket and removed the thin plastic wrapper, "Funny you should ask."

* * *

An hour after she entered, Sofia left Sara's cell and made her way back towards her office. She threw away the to-go plate and cup and made a mental note to bring a couple of Aspirin the next time she dropped in to see Sara. She also needed to check in with Catherine on the status of the case before hunting up Karl Jenkins, the ex ADA who had handled the case. She was working through the hallways, bypassing the bullpens and her fellow officers. She would have made it too, but someone called her name. It wasn't unusual to see Detective Conner Tips of Homicide during the day. She remembered those days. You caught cases at night but always seemed to end up working through them during the day. Working Cold Cases generally meant that she got to call her own hours, but she remembered how hectic being a homicide detective could be.

"Con, what can I do for you?" He shrugged, "Just wanted to have a quick word with you." She nodded and completed the walk to her office. She pushed the door open and went around her desk. The window let in more than enough desert light so she decided to forgo turning on the overhead lights. Rather than immediately sitting down, Tips closed the door behind him.

He turned back around. "Lieutenant...Sofia." She pulled a bottle of water out from the mini fridge and cracked it open. She took a long drink and then looked at him. "Yes?" The big man was unusually nervous. Thoughts of the case and worries about just who had beaten Sara to a pulp the morning before she'd been released had her temper a little shorter than usual. "Spit it out, Con." The man rubbed his hand over his buzz cut. "I think you should recuse yourself from the Grissom case." It was a very good thing she had just swallowed otherwise she would have choked. She slammed the still open plastic bottle on the desk and cold water sloshed over the top and splattered on her blotter. "_Excuse me_?" He had apparently expected her reaction. "An hour coffee break? You spent an hour in Sidle's cell unaccompanied and you took her take-out? All due respect, Lieutenant, any one with half a brain can see that you're way too close to the suspect." She stood up, "All due respect, _Detective_, I have rank here and I will recuse myself if I think it's necessary." For a moment it looked like she had won, then he sighed. "IA is poking their noses into it already. I've heard that Ecklie is leading a quiet coup over the case." Sofia sat back down and found herself massaging the bridge of her nose. "Perfect." He sunk his hands into his pant's pockets and she could hear him jingling change. "I didn't work here when all of this went down. I don't know Sara Sidle from Adam. I do know that a whole lot of people think she's innocent." She looked up, "And what do you think?" He shrugged, "I think having a second, un-biased detective on the case will stop the Rat Squad cold in their tracks."

For a moment, she didn't say a word; then on a half sigh, she gave in. "Meet me down at the CSI Conference Room at beginning of Graveyard." He nodded and turned, but before he left, Tips paused. "I think that if I was under suspicion of murder, ma'am, I would want you pulling for me as hard as you are for her." He disappeared out the door and down the hall, leaving her, for better or worse, to her own thoughts.

Author's Note: Did you think you'd heard the last of Ecklie? Wrong-o.


	26. Chapter XXV: Ancient History

_Chapter XXV_

_Ancient History_

Nick was pouring coffee and Warrick was arguing with Greg about the Clippers. Catherine was on the phone and Conner Tipps was engrossed in a file, playing catch up. Sofia had a toothpick in her mouth and Gillian was checking her makeup. The meeting wasn't set to begin for a few minutes and they were waiting for a couple of stranglers. Said stranglers arrived in a big and loud way. Stephen led the way, a file in hand. He grinned, "We have found the mother load." The somewhat over-enthusiastic CSI pushed his hair out of his eyes and snickered at some joke that only he seemed to understand. Behind him, traveling at a slower pace with a more professional attitude was Fawn. She put down her own file and moved past Stephen, Catherine and Greg, in search of the coffee pot.  
After she poured a cup and took one deep gulp, she shrugged, "We found something, but I don't know-" Stephen, though, was like a class five hurricane, unstoppable. "We ran the case through VICAP; solved, and unsolved cases with like M.O.s. There were hundreds of hits, of course, but this one is definitely the mother of all hits." Without pausing for air or even drama, he plunged on. "Modesto, California versus Laura Sidle, 1984. Sidle's mother killed her father in the exact same way Grissom was murdered."

The Conference room went quiet, it was as though they had all suddenly entered a graveyard. Stephen looked around, somewhat deflated. "Why don't they look surprised?" He shot a baffled look at Fawn. She looked at each of the faces: Catherine, Nick, Greg, Warrick and Sofia, and she understood. "They already knew, Scooter; they already knew.

* * *

_February 26, 2007_

_It was viscous. The Prosecutor attacked the defendant the same way a shark would chum. Sara Sidle held up to it, though. She held steady, sticking to her story, never altering it, no matter what Jenkins threw at her. That was of course, until he introduced People's Exhibit R into evidence and the record._

_Karl tugged at the lapels of his suit jacket and stood. "Ms. Sidle I would like you to identify the document I've just handed to you. Then I'd like you to read the highlighted passages." The courtroom was silent. In the gallery, the light scrape of colored pencil on sketchpad and the chronic cough of a smoker were the only sounds. __Lexine Verona quickly stood, "Objection, Your Honor. Said exhibit was not previously mentioned or logged into evidence for defense to investigate and or prepare for. He's blindsiding us, Your Honor." Jenkins sharply interrupted her request for a motion. "This evidence is within reasonable access to the defense and is a matter of public record." The judge nodded, "Objection overruled."_

_  
Judge, jury, counsel and the many faces of the gallery turned to Sara. She sat almost motionless in the chair on the stand. Her hands limply held the papers, but she wasn't looking at them. Her eyes were locked on the back of the room, staring at the space of wall just above the doors of the courtroom. Her big brown eyes were wide and unfocused and the blood was rapidly draining from her face. The woman had held steady as a rock through the whole trial and whatever was on the paper had shaken her. The jury looked on expectantly, almost leaning forward in their chairs. Sara disappointed them. She opened her mouth, as if to speak, but quickly closed it again, because words had failed her._

_Karl Jenkins kept his gaze locked on Sara; it was a cold and calculating look that had won many, many cases for him over the years. "Let me help you out here, Ms. Sidle. The document I just handed her is a transcript from a trial. The People versus Laura Sidle. Modesto, California, 1984. I am asking Ms. Sidle to read her own testimony from that trial."  
Lexi Verona rocketed to her feet. "OBJECTION!" Her voice rang through the court room, hot licks of anger evident in the words. "Irrelevant." Jenkins coolly looked at the judge, "It goes to show premeditation, and precedent." The judge nodded, though he did so somewhat reluctantly this time, "I'll allow it." The judge, the lawyers, the jury, everyone looked at Sara. Pale, obviously shaken to the core, she didn't utter a word. Jenkins looked, once more, to the judge. "Permission to treat witness as hostile." Verona stood again. "Badgering the witness, Your Honor." Before the judge got the full 'overruled' out of his mouth, Verona was speaking again. The hard bite of her New York accent and the anger coloring her words echoed in the room. "Prosecution is using an underhanded tactic to cause undue drama and upset my client." Judge Herbert Shaney banged his gavel in warning. "Your objection is noted counsel; however, Ms Sidle will have to answer the question." Verona shook her head, "There is no question. The Prosecution is dragging up twenty-three year old testimony with the soul purpose of bringing back up old pain." The judge, unimpressed, frowned at her, "Counselor." It was to no avail. "Defense requests a recess." Past annoyed now, the judge shook his head, "Request denied." Verona was nothing if not determined, "Defense requests a continuance." The Honorable Judge Shaney banged his gavel three times in rapid succession. "Request denied and if you open your mouth one more time on this matter, Counselor, I will hold you in contempt." The look on the attorney's face said that she didn't care about contempt charges._

_The sigh that came from the stand seemed to deflate the woman it came from. Sara licked her lips and looked from her own lawyer to the one cross-examining her. "I was thirteen years old when my mother..." She trailed off and her eyes scanned the gallery. She swallowed convulsively and the sudden burst of courage had apparently run out. She looked at Jenkins. "Please don't make me do this, Karl." The recognition, the acknowledgment that she knew the man who was arguing against her revealed just how desperately she didn't want to share whatever information he was demanding. That, however, was no more revealing than the use of the word 'please'. Those who knew her recognized that telltale sign and more than one blinked. Jenkins, however, didn't. "Please answer the question, Ms. Sidle."_

_She took a shaky breath and picked up from where she'd left off. "I was thirteen when my mother, Laura Sidle, killed my father. I was the Prosecution's star witness." Paper forgotten, Sara stared out into the distance. "They had been fighting that night. They were always fighting. My father was mean spirited and very physical. He beat us, my mother and I. She was no innocent, though, she gave just as good as she got. The fighting, the yelling, and the trips to hospital emergency rooms, I thought that was how everyone lived. One night, August the first, 1984, things got out of hand. There was screaming and hitting; then my mother pulled a knife out of the bedside table drawer. It was a hunting knife, serrated and razor sharp." She closed her eyes and paused for a moment, pulling herself together for the final push. Her hands gripped the railing in front of her so tightly that her knuckles were white. When she opened her eyes again, there was no trace of tears, but the haunted look in them had just as deep an impact. "She launched herself at him and started stabbing. He was a big man, but he went down after the first hit. Eighteen times she stabbed him. Cast off went everywhere, the walls, the bed." She shook her head. "He was dead long before the cops arrived."_

_Sara blinked a few times and then sat still. Karl Jenkins nodded, "And you saw all of this?" She nodded and took a deep, shuddering breathe, "The crime scene was my bedroom." Jenkins nodded again and went to his table. He picked up a photograph, "I'd like to present this photograph as People's Exhibit S. It is a picture of the Sidle Crime Scene, as taken, labeled and presented for the Laura Sidle Trial." He turned it towards Sara, then the jury, "Ms Sidle that is your bed and that is you father Frank Sidle, is it not?" The picture was of a twin sized bed and the dead man that had fallen on it. The white spread and the brown teddy bear sitting neatly on the bed was awash with red blood and the man's chest was a mess of punctures and still-dripping blood. The fading photograph was evidence of the murder that had happened years before. "The whole thing looks rather familiar, Ms. Sidle." The jury looked from the crime scene photos that had been tacked to a board to the picture in ADA Jenkins' hands. The scenes were, save for the difference between a girl child's and a grown man's bed, identical._

_"Now you said that this was your room, correct, and according to your statement, the murder weapon was taken out of the bed side table's drawer. If that is correct, Ms. Sidle, then please explain something to me. What was a thirteen year old girl doing with a hunting knife?" A murmur went through the jury and the gallery. Disregarding the earlier warning, Lexine Verona shot to her feet, "Objection your honor!" Jenkins turned his back on the witness, "Withdrawn, your honor." The comment was struck from record, but the intent was still there. Jenkins had made his point and the jury looked at Sara just a little bit differently._

* * *

Some things you never forgot, no matter how much you wanted to. The look on Sara's face when she had been on the stand, speaking in a flat, almost monotone voice about the night her mother had killed her father was something that had haunted Catherine. 

"_You know ... every time we get a case with a hint of domestic violence or abuse, you go off the deep end. What is your problem?"_

Her own words, thrown in Sara's face during the Svetlana Melton case so many years before. She had gotten her answer and had seen just exactly how much giving it had hurt Sara. She had gotten a copy of Sara's juvenile record after that because she had needed to know more. After years of periodically scanning over it, she knew it by heart. Sara's parents, Laura and Frank, had run a Bed and Breakfast just outside of San Francisco. The eyesore of Tamales Bay, it had been a haven for drugs, prostitution and booze binges. Sara had lived there for thirteen long years, suffering at the hands of her parents. Sporadic trips to the ER for "accidental" injuries and a hit-and-miss attendance record at school should have tipped someone off. There hadn't been any marks on the girl, the social worker had noted, so no one had lifted a finger to help her.

"_Sara, I was there -- there wasn't a mark on her." Her words again, quickly answered by Sara's emphatic "Not that we could see, Catherine."_

The wise words of someone who had been there and done that. She had been right, not that Catherine had ever acknowledged that. She had been too angry, too proud, too caught up in her own ambition and the twisted little power trip she'd been on, to say she was sorry.

Looking at Sara that day, despite her anger, had been an eye-opener. The woman had been washed out, pale, and there hadn't been an ounce of color in her oval face. Her dark eyes, wide and dark with pain, had stood out against her bloodless face, like two black pools of infinite sorrow. In that moment, CSI Sara Sidle had disappeared, to be replaced by a thirteen year old victim that no one had ever tried to help. Not that the jury had seen that. No, Jenkins' little remark had turned the story into something else, something more sinister. It had cast more doubt and guilt onto Sara's character and story. Out of context, it did seem strange, a thirteen year old having a knife all but under her pillow. When you knew the whole story, the strange part was that Sara had never used it.

Rehashing it now, Catherine winced. Sara had never breathed a word of her past to anyone. Jenkins had spun it around to be incriminating. She had something to hide. Sara hadn't been hiding anything; she had been surviving, trying to be something more then the girl whose mother had killed her father. The jury had only seen two identical scenes and the one woman with a connection to them both. Catherine had seen one of the missing pieces of Sara's complicated, still incomplete puzzle.

* * *

His Grandmother had loved him. That wasn't to say she hadn't smacked him when he'd deserved it, because she had. She'd also worked to make sure he'd had a good life, a healthy and happy childhood. If Markus, Quentin and Ava had that, he would be happy. He tried to wrap his mind around it and still couldn't. By the end, a few months after Ava had been born, he and Tina had been holding their marriage together with no more than few half-kept promises and hope. It hadn't been enough, but never had he raised a hand to his wife. They didn't get along now, the pretenses of getting along had long ago fallen away. He would still never badmouth her in front of their children. He tried to imagine Ava, his baby girl, or either of his boys, in a position of seeing their mother abused. It sickened him to no end. What kind of father, what kind of man, had Frank Sidle been? He didn't know. He knew that if anyone ever tried to hurt any of his children he would stop at nothing to protect them. That was something Sara never had. Had it turned her into a killer? Somehow, he had never bought that. There was no murder gene, period.

* * *

Had Grissom known about Sara's past? Somehow, Nick thought he probably did. The memory of Sara's story soured his stomach. He came from a large, rowdy Texas family. He and his brothers had always been pounding on each other; his sisters had been forever arguing over makeup and clothes. His mother had lost her temper, more than once, but the closest she had ever come to hitting them was throwing a shoe at them. The Magic Shoe, he and his siblings had called it. When their mother had thrown it, the thing would fly around corners and inch under closed doors. His father had threatened with a belt, but to his knowledge, the leather had never left the Judge's belt loops. His childhood had been the polar opposite of Sara's and yet they had ended up in the same profession. 

He had been accused of murder once. What had made the difference there? Between him and Sara? He had moved on with his life, she had been sentenced to death.

His family, both back home and in Vegas, had been behind him. Sara had been betrayed and abused by her second family.

He looked from face to face, saw nothing but guilt, and knew that he was not the only one who felt the weight of his actions pressing down on him.

* * *

"_I didn't see anything." Sara grinned as they were rounding the corner around the lab's reception desk, "Really? Because I saw everything."_

He hadn't exactly been lying to her. He had averted his eyes away from Sara when it had been prudent. Not that they'd had much time to think about privacy and propriety when they'd been shoved into the emergency Haz-Mat shower together. The fact was, though, he'd kept his eyes on her face and her back. The former because it was lovely, and the cold water flowing over it had only made it more so. The latter because it would have been a betrayal of their friendship to check out her bare ass. The image of her back, though, had stuck with him for a long time. He had never asked about it, though after he'd heard about what had happened at trial, he wished he had. Her back had been covered in scars. They had been old, faded and had crisscrossed each other, connecting, over lapping and circling each other: the physical reminders of her childhood, the ones that she would always have with her. He hadn't been there that day and he was glad. He didn't want that image, the one of Sara on the stand, going through her past, in his head. He had enough bad memories without that one.

* * *

"Yeah, it came out at trial. It doesn't come into play here." Uncomfortable, he shifted on his feet and looked around the room, restlessly until his gaze fell back on Fawn. The young woman opened up a file. "I think it might, actually. According to the California Corrections Database, Laura Sidle was paroled in October of 2006." For a moment, no one spoke and then Gillian, one raven brow arched and arms crossed over her chest, summed up the room's thoughts. "You've got to be frickin' kidding me." 

Sofia nodded, "I'm with Junior, I checked her status back in 2007. There was no record of release." She looked at Fawn, brows furrowed, "Do we have a current address?" Fawn shook her head and shrugged, "I guess California Corrections is even more backlogged than Nevada's."

Catherine opened her mouth to say something, but was cut off.

"You see, that's the problem with CSIs. They're geniuses when it comes to finding an out of place fiber, but give them leg-work and they're completely lost."

Author's Note: Can you tell I watch just a little more _Law and Order _than is probably healthy? Yeah, thought so. Send the reviews on in, people, positive if you like it and negative if I despratly need to improve.


	27. Chapter XXVI: From Out Of The Past

_Chapter XXVI_

_From Out of the Past_

It was a familiar scene, one he had seen hundreds, maybe even thousands of times. There might be a few new faces, but it put him in mind of countless cases. Warrick looked at him, "Sorry, Brass, you might be confused. You take a right on Freemont to get to the Old Folks Home." Not put off, Jim put his notes on the table. "Yeah, well I can blame old age; what, did Nick over there make a wrong turn in Albuquerque or something? - 'Cause this sure isn't Texas." Nick chuckled, "I feel the love." Catherine smiled, "Welcome back, Jim."  
He nodded, "Yeah." Detective Tipps cleared his throat and Catherine chuckled, "All right, Jim, Stephen Gillian and Fawn are my CSIs and Detective Conner Tipps over there is helping Sofia with the PD part of the investigation.

He had retired three years ago. Retiring at the Rank of Captain with a full pension and a free-of-debt house and car had, at one time, been a pretty significant goal in his life. He'd been a fool for ever thinking that lazy days of retirement would ever satisfy him. The whole 'the grass is greener on the other side' bit was crap. So were the commercials that spoke of touring the state parks in an RV or picking up golf. Retirement was only enjoyable if you had other retired people to spend it with. Everyone he knew was still busting their asses, trying to keep Vegas from self-destructing itself. God, he missed it. He never thought he would, but he did. He missed it like a paraplegic missed taking a stroll. He missed the work, even the longer-than-forever stakeouts. He missed the camaraderie. He missed seeing the rookies throw up at their first bloody scene. He missed bitching about the sheriff over coffee. He missed protecting and serving. He missed being a cop. He thought he'd lost his love for the job. Seeing Sara put away had taken something out of him. He wasn't sure he could give that something a name or a label, but it had dimmed down to almost nothing. That something was back, though. It had sparked when her execution had been stayed and then it had flamed to life when the investigation was reopened. It was blazing strong and hot now, that something. If he'd lost it, he'd found it again, and he felt better than he had in five years.

He looked over Sofia; if one had to pick protégées, she was his. He'd known she'd make a good detective, from the moment he'd laid eyes on her the first time. Sofie might have been carrying a CSI ID at the time, but he'd known she'd eventually come to his side. She had, and the woman had never looked back. Right now, she looked tired and rough around the edges. She was, he knew, a Lieutenant now. She worked Cold Cases. While those sorts of cases had never been his forte, he knew that Sofia had the dogged determination and the sharp mind to have carved herself out a place first as part of them as the head of the squad. He was proud of her. Tipps, on the other hand, was an unknown. The man had earned his shield after he'd retired. The former football player was eyeing him skeptically. For him, and Catherine's CSIs, who looked like fresh faced extras from Gap commercials, it wasn't a reunion, it was a civilian horning in on their turf. "I called in a few old markers and came up with an address in Barstow to go along with my hunch." He handed the page he'd scrawled the information on to Tipps, and the man nodded. "Some hunch." Catherine grinned. "You and me, Con, we're taking a road trip." Jim watched Sofia - hands balled at her side - nod stiffly. "Yeah, Tipps, go ahead. I've got some leads to chase here."

Sofie had wanted to go, he could see it in her eyes. For that matter, so had he. Part of being a cop, though, was distancing yourself, controlling your baser emotions. Even when you wanted to bash the punk's face into the table, you kept your hands in your pockets. Anger, especially the vengeful kind, could screw an investigation all to Hell, and this investigation was too important to screw up. Sara was too important to screw over, again.

* * *

Every time she made the trip to Barstow, she couldn't help but remember the bus accident they had worked there. A few faulty bolts had sent lives into chaos, all in the name of cutting corners and saving a couple of bucks. They would not be going all the way out to the crash site, though Catherine wondered if the gouge marks were still etched into the paved road. Time had probably faded them, eaten away at them until they were only a vague memory. Her memory, the surviving victims, but did anyone else remember the accident? She bet Sara did. The woman had worked the scene and the case right along beside the rest of them. Conner's gruff, "We're here." jolted her out of her thoughts. Here was a small, greasy spoon truck-stop diner. The air reeked of diesel and fried food. The parking lot was mostly gravel and had more pits and potholes than she could count. A few huge, dusty eighteen-wheelers were lined up, gigantic engines rumbling away, and a few dented rusty cars were parked by the building. It was a dive by the name of The RoadSide. The Detective turned off the engine and climbed out of his city-issued Sedan. Their reflection, a built man in a suit and herself in slacks and a silk shirt, appear like second shadows in the tinted and dusty diner windows. They stuck out like sore thumbs against the denim-clad customers steadily plowing through their plates of over cooked, under-flavored food. On the other side of the glass, tired tourists and rowdy truck drivers pointedly ignored them. Only the wait staff looked their way when Conner opened the door and stepped in. One of the waitresses, a voluptuous-gone-flabby bleach blonde with the name Denise stitched on the too-tight uniform's left breast sized them up and put on a fake smile. Her bloodshot brown eyes darted to the kitchen area then back at them. "Welcome to The RoadSide, would you like a booth or the counter?" The gold shield hooked to Conner's belt winked in the morning sun that was pouring through the glass door. "We're looking for some information." A dark brow, the same color as the roots peeking out from under the teased up bottle-blonde hair, rose. "What kind?"  
Catherine sized up the woman in front of her. She was cagey and street smart. The woman had undoubtedly had some run-ins with the law before. "We need to talk to Laura Sidle, about her daughter." A baffled look crossed the woman's face. "Laura doesn't have any kids." No sooner had the words had dropped from her mouth, she scowled. "She's not even here today." Her brown eyes darted to the kitchen again, giving herself, and Laura, away. Conner crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. "Now you can tell us where she is or we can bring you in for obstruction of justice and while we're booking you, we'll do a drug test." Self-preservation won out in less time than it took a heart to beat. "She's taking a smoke break out back." With that, the waitress turned on her heel and left them standing there.

Tipps watched her, "She was awful nice." Catherine nodded, "A real winner. Now." She angled her head back towards the door. They walked around the side of the diner, avoiding the glass shards and dust-filled pot holes. The first sign of life they saw was a cloud of smoke. As they rounded the side of the building, the ripe smell of garbage wafted their way. Sitting on a rickety milk crate between the diner's back door and the dumpsters was a woman in a candy pink waitress's uniform that matched the one Denise had been wearing; only this uniform had Laura stitched, white on pink. The sandy haired woman didn't even spare them a glance; she just took one long drag on her cigarette. "Entrance is around the side and if you don't like the way the dumpster smells, don't get today's special."

Catherine looked her over, from the limp ponytail that her hair had been pulled back into to the well-worn sneakers on her feet. "We're not here to eat; we have a few questions for you, Ms. Sidle." She looked up at that and squinted at them. Laura heaved a sigh and threw the cigarette, which she'd smoked down to the filter, on the ground and stomped it out. She pulled a wrinkled pack out of the pocket of her apron, pulled out another cigarette and lit it up. After her first, long drag, she looked at them again. "I was wondering if you were going to come talk to me about Sara. No one ever did the first time." She stood up and leaned into the kitchen's door. "EDUARDO, I'M TAKING LUNCH!" There was a string of Spanish curses as an answer. Laura stood up and leaned against the building. "Don't look so surprised, Ms. Willows, Sara's story isn't exactly an LVPD secret." Laura pushed away from the wall and started walking. "If I'm going to have to talk about you, I'm at least gonna be comfortable." She was headed right for the dilapidated, rusted trailers that were sitting in a drunken row behind the diner. Catherine pushed her sunglasses further up on her nose and hoped like hell she wouldn't catch hepatitis.

To her great surprise, the trailer, though small and old, was neatly kept. It was also as impersonal as a hotel room. There were no pictures, no tokens, nothing to tell the story of Laura Sidle. There was only the woman herself, and she wasn't giving up anything. Catherine had never thought about this. Talking to Laura Sidle had never been on her to-do-list, but here she was. She looked for some small piece of mother-daughter resemblance, some characteristic that would connect Sara to this woman. She found none. Laura had light brown, almost blonde, hair; there was a strand of gray here and there to confirm that the color was natural, and not from a bottle. She wasn't as tall as Sara was, in fact, she was just a hair shorter than Catherine. She was curvy to Sara's more willowy frame. In short, Catherine couldn't find a hint of Sara in her mother and was all the gladder for it. "She looks like her father." Laura's voice, raspy from years of smoking, was harsh and held no hint of the Californian accent that Sara's did. When she spoke though, Catherine saw the gap between her front two teeth and realized that, for better or worse, something of Laura had been passed down to her daughter.

Laura sat down on a chair that was held together by duct tape and threadbare clothe upholstery. "The case is public domain, a kid can access it from the Internet, so why the hell are you talking to me?" There was just a hint of defensiveness in her voice. Her eyes looked from Catherine to Conner, sizing them up quickly. "Well?" Tipp's body language was tightly controlled. His hand was on the butt of his gun. Not for intimidation, - not exactly - but as a reminder. They were in the position of power here, and he wanted to remind Laura of that. "We're re-investigating the Grissom case. Where were you..." Before he finished, Laura was laughing. She was laughing and then she was deadly serious. The switch was so quick that Catherine could barely keep up. "Do you think I'm stupid?" Laura took another draw on her cigarette and blew the smoke into the air. "He died the same way Frank died. So you're either trying to pin Frank's murder on Sara or this guy's on me." Catherine sat on the couch and looked across the small space at Laura. "It is a pretty big coincidence. You getting out and coming to Nevada, just months before your daughter's lover is murdered." Laura nodded, "Yeah, well, I didn't have many places to go, after Sara and Trent 'Forest Gump'ed the old place." Tipps, who had remained standing, blinked, "Forest Gump-ed?" Laura blew another puff of smoke towards the ceiling. "Bulldozed the house to the ground the day she turned eighteen. Destroyed the physical in a metaphorical destruction of the emotional."  
Catherine blinked, these were not the words of an uneducated convict. The more Laura spoke, the less she resembled the woman Catherine had imagined her to be. "I came to Barstow because I had a job here. Which is more than I had in 'Frisco. I didn't even know Sara had landed herself in Vegas until the trial. I wasn't interested in a Mommy-Daughter reunion, I'm still not. So ask your questions and make it quick, I only get thirty minutes for lunch."

Author's Note: I have a new respect for anyone who not only deals with a four year old on a regular basis. My hyper-active niece aside, I'm trying to juggle this story, another writing project and the frame work for the next story. Busy, busy, busy. I've written her before, and here I am doing it again. Laura Sidle and I don't get along very well at all. Ah well, there she is. Send the feedback on along, because it makes me happy...and a happy writer is a productive writer. Yeah, didn't think that would work, but it was worth a shot.


	28. Chapter XXVII: Reunited

Special thanks go out to Taya and her absloutly wonderful, endlessly helpful, utterly awesome critiques and comments on my formatting and grammer. I'm trying to put what she's pointed out to good use, but it's one in the morning, and the key word here is trying.

_Chapter XXVII_

_Reunited_

Shift was over, and despite the fact that Nick and Greg had been on day shift for the last few years, they had quickly fallen back into the pattern of Graveyard. Warrick, who had been on Graveyard for what seemed like forever, was ready to head home. He was sure the other two men were ready for a few horizontal hours in a dim hotel room too. All three of them, though, were holding back, standing around, waiting. Catherine, after her return from Barstow, had shut herself in her office, in a good imitation of Grissom, and had yet to show her face. Warrick was sorely tempted to knock on her door and see if she was okay. His common sense trumped temptation. When Cath got in those sorts of moods, it was best to leave her alone. As much as he'd like to help her, she never got back on an even keel until she went off and worked through it herself.

As it was, he had something to do for himself this morning, and it was probably better that Catherine wasn't around for it. From the first day she had stepped foot in the lab, Sara had been a touchy subject for the other woman. Greg had a coin in his hand, turning it over and over. Nick had his hands in his pockets and was scuffling his boot on the tile.They both looked at him, and he realized that through some fickle turn of fate, he had been elected leader. He knew exactly what he needed to do, but his feet felt like they were cemented to the floor. Why did it have to be so hard? It was hard because he was about to look into the eyes of the woman whose life he'd ruined and almost helped take. If, God help him, the situation was somehow reversed, he didn't know if he would have been able to accept a sorry. Not five years ago and not now. Maybe Sara would be more forgiving than he. Then again, maybe he – they – didn't deserve forgiveness.

* * *

Though she _knew_ that county lock up had a schedule - she could hear it being broadcast over the PA - she wasn't on it. All of her meals, be they the slop from the not-so-fondly-named mess hall or special ordered take-out, were brought to her. She showered after the rest of the women were herded back to the general population, and the guards were all Sheriff's deputies. Three women, one for each shift, hand picked by Sofia. Sara had no idea how Sofia was getting away with this. The Lieutenant was breaking enough rules to have Internal Affairs more excited than fifteen year old boys with pilfered Playboys. The woman came in every day, sometimes two or three times a day, to give her updates. Lexine, too, came every day. Lexi was watching the investigation so closely that no one could, in her own words, "Take a piss" without Lexi knowing it. That was comforting, in a strange sort of way. It was good to know who your friends were.

Friends. She was mocking herself. She had gotten away from the loco bitches who took pleasure in their attempts to kill her, and her way of rewarding herself was filling the silence with her own attacks. She had never figured herself for a masochist.

When Deputy "call me Renee" Montoya, came in, keys clattering in her hand, Sara looked up from the pages she'd been pretending to read. "Visitors."That was odd. Until now, Sofia and Lexi had come right on back, breaking a handful of rules while doing so. Montoya sighed as she opened the door. "C'mon, you know the procedure." Know it? Procedure was all but second nature now. She turned, slowly, revealing that she had no hidden weapons, and held her arms out to allow the cuffs to be put on. They were in front of her, and after a quick check, Renee and another Deputy, a man that Sara didn't recognize, led her out the cell, down the block and towards the interrogation rooms.

Interrogation Room Four, if she wasn't mistaken. It was hard to be sure; every single room was painted the same shade of flat, lifeless gray. It had the same bolted down table and the same rickety chairs. The same two-way mirror, the same camera in the corner of the room. Unless they had fixed it, though, Four was the only room with a squeaky door. The door squeaked, therefore she had to assume she was in Interrogation Room Four. It was one of the bigger rooms, meant for team-up interrogations. She could remember one certain case, Brass and Sofia had been sitting at the table, grilling the suspect while she and Nick had been standing behind them, ready to present the damning evidence and get the DNA sample that would be the icing on the cake. She could remember it all: the man's name had been Phillip David and he had killed Jack Handrews over a promotion. It had been March, and unseasonably hot, but the body had been found before the animals had destroyed it or heat had bloated it up. She and Nick had been working the case for three days, juggling it with a couple of penny-anty B&Bs. She'd also testified in court that afternoon. So, she had still been dressed in a black suit, a direct foil to Nick's jeans and tee shirt. Brass, Jim, had been in his usual suit and tie and Sofia had been wearing all black. Nick had later complained that if he had known that they would all be in suits, he too would have "spiffed himself up".

The soft treatment of the last few days had lulled her into a sense of complacency. She didn't register the squeak of the door when it opened again. So when she did look up to see three people in the doorway, she all but jumped out of her skin.

* * *

She looked like a deer caught in the headlights. It had always been hard to sneak up on her. Even if she was intensely focused on some minuscule piece of evidence, she knew you were there. Most of the time at least. 'Sneak up on Sara' had been, a long time ago, his favorite time-killing game. Her eyes, big and brown, one surrounded by a fading bruise, went from one of them to the other. She didn't say a word, she just looked at them. It always has been impossible to guess what she had been thinking. Even when he had spent days at a time with her, Greg had never been able to tag exactly what went on in her head. Her face, on the other hand, was not as mysterious. The slight raise in her eyebrow, the one that now had a scar across it, signaled that she wanted them to state their business. She was intrigued, but not enough to be the first one to speak. He looked to Nick on his left and Warrick on his right and they looked right back at him.

Gone were the days when he could get her to smile with a lame joke and a lazy half smile.  
He rubbed the back of his neck, "Hey Sara." Hey. Wow, he had broken the record for lame greetings with that one.

Not for the first time he wished he could go back to the man he had been the first time he'd met Sara. Greg the DNA Labrat with spiky hair and Marilyn Manson pouring out of the CD player. The geeky guy who had won over the new girl as his friend. That Greg had never been at a loss for words. Sara had sometimes put her hand over his mouth to get him to stop talking. A quick glance at Nick and Warrick told him that they were at the same place as he was: the corner of dazed and confused. The next thought circumvented the usual filters and popped out of his mouth. "Culver says 'Hi'."

Maybe the slip was a good thing, because Sara tilted her head and her eyebrow went up a fraction higher. "Since when does Trent say anything as simple and straight forward as 'Hi'?"  
Foot in the door, Greg grabbed the back of a chair and turned it around to sit. "Okay, so there was a lot of stuff thrown in, but basically it amounted to 'hi', more or less."

She still smelled the same. The thought was a strange one, but it popped to the forefront of his mind and stayed there. It hadn't been shampoo or perfume, that Sidle scent was just that, pure Sara Sidle. He kept that particular observation to himself. "You should see him now. He went totally bald, and has an uncanny resemblance to Mr. Clean." Something that might have been a smile ghosted across Sara's face, but as quickly as it had come, it disappeared. "I bet he does."

* * *

He watched her swallow. The scar on her neck rippled when she did. Nick tried not to stare at her scars, but he couldn't help it. The way he saw it, he might have just as well been the one who had given them to her. The almost smile came and went and Nick wanted to see it again.  
He leaned against the corner of the table, half sitting, half standing. "Ignore the lab rat, the LA sun went straight to his head. He has delusions of CSI grandeur."  
Warrick chuckled, "Delusions of grandeur? Nick thinks that twangy accent makes him sound smarter."

In manly retaliation, he punched Warrick in the shoulder. "He doesn't know what he's talking about. Catherine just let him out of his cage because she thinks he's cute." As soon as he said it, he regretted it. Damn it, he had to go and stomp out any good will their bantering might have worked up with Sara. Son of a bitch. He slowly turned his eyes back to Sara. "I didn't mean..."  
She only shrugged. "Yeah, he's out of his cage, but does your leash stretch all the way back home or did the woman you tricked into marrying you have to chaperone you?" He laughed out loud and looked down at the wedding band on his left hand. "No, Cori's at home."

Sara rolled her eyes, "Cori? Blonde, petite, has a lisp, right?" Warrick chuckled, "Busted, man." Nick shrugged and grinned, he couldn't help it. "When you're right, you're right, Sunshine."

* * *

Sunshine, he bet Sara hadn't been called that in a long, long time. He actually remembered the first time Nick had called her that. Catherine had called her in on a case. She had just gotten off a triple and when she came in, she had been exhausted. Exhausted and grumpy, but she had gotten the job done. He'd called her Sunshine as a joke, but along the way, the name had become his pet name for Sara. He listened with half an ear as Nick went through every little detail pertaining to his wife. His thoughts were elsewhere. One of the last times they had been together, before it had all gone bad, kept running though his head.

"The four of us, we're a team now." Nick had declared war against Mike Keppler, and by extension, Catherine. Sara had been the most reluctant of them to join the coup.  
"_That's why I hate being deceitful, it always comes back on you."_

She had been bundled up against the cold that long ago night. Now, she was handcuffed and scarred, but he couldn't help think that the core of the woman he'd known was still there. The guys were in their element and, if he let his eyes un-focus, if he glazed over the finer details, it was like they had all been together these past five years. No drugs, no jail, no hurt feelings, no miles between them. The four of them, a team together again.

Except, the scars said otherwise. Sara wasn't the same woman she had been. No more than he was the man he had been. Fatherhood had changed him; prison had changed her. Both changes were probably irrevocable; they'd never be the same as they had once been. She wasn't responding like she used to. More cynical sarcasm, less warmth. She didn't tease, she didn't laugh, she barely smiled. He supposed five years in jail could do that to someone. Especially an innocent someone. Then, Greg said something. Something so dumb, so _Greg_ that he couldn't help but laugh. Neither could Sara. Her laugh, as short and quiet as it had been, was a sign. Things would work out - they _had _to.

* * *

Behind the observation room glass, eyes narrowed and went shades darker in anger. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. Sidle was supposed to be dead. The team was supposed to be broken. There wasn't supposed to be a case. There wasn't supposed to be an investigation. Years of careful planning were going to hell in a hand basket.

"No."

The sharp interruption of the venomous inner-monologue was verbalized and it quietly reverberated in the small room. This wasn't the way this would happen. It wasn't going to end like this. Harried footsteps sounded as the observer went towards the door. Anger making the steps quiver and waver like alcohol. Even colliding with another warm body coming in the door didn't halt the exited. This had to be fixed. _Now._

* * *

"You're acting like a virgin on Prom Night."

Jim Brass chuckled, "Not quite, Sofie."

Despite his words, he was nervous, and he wasn't sure why. He hadn't betrayed her, not on the outside. The inside, though, where it really counted, he had always had doubts. That was why he was so damn nervous. He knew that he had thought she was guilty and that was more than enough to cause the acid in his stomach to work double time. The door was open and he could hear Nick, Greg, and Warrick inside. Some would say that they were guiltier than he. They would be wrong.

Jim looked over at Sofia, "You coming?" She shrugged, "A little later."

He took a deep breath and put his hand on the doorknob.

* * *

The door flew open so hard that it hit the wall.

Fawn jumped and hit her head on the locker door. Hissing through her teeth and rubbing her abused skull, she closed the metal door and turned to see who had nearly knocked the door off its hinges. She shouldn't have been surprised. Gillian had been on a tear all week and tonight had been no different. The taller brunette didn't even spare her a glance, she just stormed over to her own locker and proceeded to twist the combination lock. When she couldn't open it, she let out an impressive string of curses and banged her fist against the metal hard enough to cause her own knuckles to pop in sympathy. Fawn leaned against her own locker, almost directly across from Gillian's, "That's one locker that will never threaten us again."

Like throwing kerosene on a fire, her words only made Gillian's temper burn hotter and higher. She whirled around. Dark eyes, wide and hot and anger, flashed at her. "Shut the hell up, Fawn."

She hadn't even pegged the stolen quote or made a comment on sci-fi being the lowest form of entertainment. Somebody had put the other woman in a bad mood. That, Fawn mused, was usually her job.

"God. Who flipped your bitch switch, Junior?"

The sound that came from Gillian was somewhere between an unladylike snort and an animalistic growl. Gillian turned around, almost spinning like a top. She propped one leg up on the bench and glared at her. "Do _not_ call me _Junior_." Fawn felt a grin coming on. "So that's it, huh. Little Jilly can't take a joke." Using a pejorative nickname was great, if the person you were talking to was under the age of ten, or at least smaller than you. Gillian was neither. With the grace of a panther, and all the rage, she stepped over the bench that separated them. Her finger jabbed at the middle of Fawn's chest. "Unlike everyone else around here. I haven't been chasing some ice cold case leads. Three weeks of hard work on the Dent case just went down the tubes, I've got an AMBER alert that's fifty hours old and a sexually assaulted little girl down at Palms. Catherine has barricaded herself in her office, Stephen is playing errand boy for Lieutenant Curtis and Warrick is off reliving his glory days with two CSIs who don't even work in Vegas anymore."

Each word was accentuated by a jab and Fawn found herself taking a step back. The small row of lockers didn't afford her much space. Fawn's back collided with the cold steel of the old lockers and she was stuck. Gillian stepped closer, into her personal space. "And _you'_ve been acting like a star-struck teenager. Sidle this and Sidle that." They were almost nose-to-nose, breathing each other's air.

Then Fawn moved forward and gave Gillian a little peck on the mouth, a quick meeting of the lips. She pulled back and smiled. "If you wanted my attention, Jilly, all you had to do was ask."  
Gillian returned the little kiss with a much longer one of her own. "I've been a bitch?"  
Together now, not an inch of space between them, Fawn smiled and wrapped her legs around the other, much taller, woman's waist. "Just a bit."Gillian shook her head, "Sorry." Fawn gave her another quick peck, a hint of what was to come, "No you're not. You never are."  
Gillian stepped back and eased Fawn back to the ground, "True."

They didn't touch as they walked down the halls, or through the lobby. They each got into their own cars. The only sign that _something_ was happening was that both woman sported a smile. One smile was softer, fuller, the smile of a woman who was half in love, but hadn't realized it yet. The other was sharper, more predatory: the smile of a woman who had exactly what she wanted.

Author's Note: Well, we have arrived at what I consider the begining of the end; and what a thrilling end it's going to be, if I don't say so myself. The next few chapters are going to be fast paced and chock full of last minuite, lead cementing, I've-figured-it-out-now clues. There will also be: the betrayl by the most obvious, and there for least likely, player; comfort from a most unexpected source (yes, Loco,_ it's_ finally happening);one more sad twist of the knife in Sara's heart; and that's just the tip of the iceberg. Wow. I'm worse then CBS with the teasers. Send reviews...and cookies...I enjoy them both so much!


	29. Chapter XXVIII: It Feels So Good

_Chapter XXVIII_

_It Feels So Good_

The guys left leaving Jim behind. They looked lighter, if not happier. They also looked tired, like they had each run a triathlon. She wasn't exactly sure what had been said. Though the temptation to peek was great, she held off. Sara deserved some privacy, damn it. She was in the hall, leaning against the wall across from the interrogation room door. She had stood in this same place, this same way, five years ago. She had been working through a storm of emotions. To find out, in the same night, that Sara was seeing Grissom, and that she was accused of killing the same, had been a two-hit KO that she had still been staggering from hours and hours later.

The first few, awful days, had been like Hell. Then it had stretched into weeks, then years. Now, here she was again, trying to untie her tongue and think of something - anything -to say. She was a detective, damn it, a lieutenant whose job it was to work her own cases and direct other detectives. She knew how to talk things out of people. She did it all the time; witnesses, victims, family members, perps. One woman shouldn't have the power to stop her in her tracks. Sara did. She always had.

She had known of the woman long before they'd ever seen each other. Rumors and talk around the labs way back when she had been a CSI on the dayshift. They had called her the Ice Queen. She'd had an image of the so called Ice Queen worked up in her head. When they had finally met, the image and the woman were a perfect match, at first. Sara had been - still was - passionate. Passionate about her work, about the victims. She hid it most of the time, but sometimes the empathy, the sadness, came through. Even when Sara had rubbed her the wrong way, and that had been most of the time in the begining, she had a respect for her.

The respect, mutual respect, grew when she became a detective. It hadn't been a competition then. They had been a team, and been friends. She hadn't started to fall for the woman until after the Bell Shooting. The Bell Shooting, an incident that would forever be capitalized, bolded and underlined in her memory. They had exchanged words that morning, after her run. She had come to talk to Grissom, and Sara had butted in. At the moment, the other woman's words had stung like fire. Later, after all was said and done and her badge and gun were back in her hands, she found the note. A scrawled on scrap of paper shoved between two pages of the papers she was signing off on.

_Trust is a two way street._

It hadn't made much sense then, but later it had. Later, she had overheard Greg telling Brass that IA had been breathing down their necks, watching their every move, all that night and into the morning and afternoon.

"_You should not be in this building."_

In the same few hours, Sara had saved her career twice. First by getting her out of the building before the Rat Squad caught her there and then by proving that she could not have been the shooter. She had never mentioned it, and Sara had never brought it up again, but the respect, the trust, and something else, had been there, and it had grown. Then Grissom had been killed and the ice had melted completely. Despite her own pain, it had been impossible to not be there for Sara. She had put her career, her own sanity, on the line trying to get that case thrown. Once again, from behind bars, Sara had saved her career, by pushing her away. She might have failed, and failed miserably, the first time, but this time she would save Sara. She would prove her innocent or she would put her in a jeep and point her towards Canada, damn the consequences.

Her thoughts, as torrid, possibly career ending, and definitly criminal as they were, were interrupted by the door opening.

* * *

"Hey Kid." Sara had stared at him, eyes wide, for a minute. "These bums bothering you?" 

Nick, Greg and Warrick, three men he had worked with, had respected him. They had visited him at the hospital, had brought him the coffee he wasn't supposed to drink and the greasy food that he was forbidden to eat. They had been good friends once.

Sara had been Sara, his Sara. Sara with her sad brown eyes and her cute little smile. She had been brave to the point of foolhardy. He had personally chewed her out more than once. She had been kind, she thought no one knew about her visits to Brenda Collins, but he had. She had been like a daughter to him.

Now, dressed in vibrant orange, he looked at his Sara and saw a stranger.  
Then she smiled, just a little smile, and he saw her. "Just a bunch of kids who think they're funny, Jim."

Greg threw his hand over his chest, feigning hurt. Like Sara, he had gone down a hard road. Last time he'd seen Sanders, he'd been in a hospital room, half dead. "She missed us, she really did." Warrick stood, "As fun as this has been, we've got to go." Each man said a rather uncomfortable goodbye to Sara and left him alone with her. He had been both elated and terrified. He took the seat that Nick had just vacated, right across from Sara. She smiled at him again, a little quirk at the side of her mouth.

"Sofia told me you that you were living out your leisure years as far away from this place as you could manage."He chuckled, "Well, what can I say, this place grows on a guy. So how have you been?"

The conversation had been strange. He had retired, she had been in jail. They hadn't spoken in five years. As he had stood to leave, though, she said something that he had neither expected nor been prepared for.

"E-five-seven-eight-two-B"

He had blinked, once, twice, three times. Was she quoting a case number?" "What's that, Sara?" Her fingers were folded over each other, a subconscious way of hiding the handcuffs she was wearing. "Your daughter's ID, Jim." Her statement, simple and to the point had floored him, he'd had to sit back down. "You mean Ellie?" The realization terrified him, down to his very bones.

"Serving eighteen months for DUI. Overcrowding has pushed her parole hearing up, though. It's in two weeks." Three years, he hadn't heard from Ellie in three years. Three long years of worry and guilt. "She's changed, Jim. She's taken some hard knocks, real hard knocks, but she's taken them like a champ. It would help her if someone was there to speak for her, to help her out." He had scrounged for words, but everything caught in his throat. Finally he sputtered out a "She doesn't want my help." Sara smiled again, it was a sad sort of smile. "She won't spit on you this time, Jim. She needs you now more than ever." He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it quickly. "Go, Jim. Get her out of that place. She doesn't belong there."

He nodded and stood again, "Neither do you." He opened the door and looked back at her before leaving. He felt better then he had in five years.

Sofia was standing out in the hall, leaning against the wall. When she looked up, he saw the conflict brewing in her blue eyes. She was another one of his girls that, apparently, needed him. He closed the door behind him with a quiet click. "Sofie." She gave him a half-hearted smile, the same smile that Sara had given him earlier. He was wrong, Sofia didn't need him, and neither did Sara.

"_She_ needs _you_ in there, _Sofie_."

* * *

Damn it all to hell. She hadn't had a good and proper crying jag in five years. She wasn't going to break that streak because the guys had come in and been themselves or because Jim had come in and... She ran her face across her orange sleeve in a defiant sweep. She _was not _going to cry. She hated each and everyone of them. They had turned their backs on her, all but thrown her in jail themselves. 

Then Greg had come in and smiled at her. Nick had flashed his wedding ring and talked about his wife, which had led Warrick to show her pictures of his three gorgeous children. Greg had been at a loss for about half a minute and then he'd listing off a string of exotic sounding and probably made up girlfriends. It had been so normal. If she had closed her eyes, she would have been in the break room, nursing a cup of coffee, getting ready to work a case.

Jim had come in and she had been struck dumb for a minute. She hadn't thought he'd come. He was retired. If he had any sense at all, he would have stayed away. God, she was glad he hadn't. She hadn't meant to mention Ellie. The woman would be horrified that she had. It had just happened. He needed to know, damn it. He was her father and Ellie needed him. Weather she liked it or not.

She was wiping her tears - God why wouldn't they stop - again when the door opened.

"Renee, go take a coffee break, but don't look like you're taking a coffee break."

A low, almost raspy, alto voice. Sofia. The door shut again, and they were alone. "Sara."  
She looked up, she couldn't help it. Sofia stood there, cool and confident, and she had bloodshot eyes and her lip was still quivering. Sofia looked at her and, in two heartbeats, was at her side. "Those bastards. They made you cry." Gentle hands cupped her cheeks and a thumb, both soft from care and callused from work, wiped the remaining tears from her cheek. Sofia went down to one knee so they were eye to eye. Sara chuckled a bit. "It's not them, I just, you know."

She sighed. They were so close now. Closer than Sara had been to anyone, by choice, in five years. Her heart pounded in her chest like a heavy metal drummer. It was to the point of pain, but it made her feel good, it made her feel _alive_. "You okay?" The words that Sofia expected to hear were caught in her chest. She could barely nod. Sofia smiled and rubbed her thumb across her cheek. "I can probably catch them, beat them up for you."  
She laughed, she couldn't help but laugh and smile. "My hero." Sofia nodded and Sara would have sworn that she saw her eyes go a shade deeper, more intense blue. "I will get you out of here."

One side, the side that was hopelessly clinging to the edge of the abyss, ready to fall for Sofia, believed her. She knew that Sofia would rescue her, long blonde hair flowing in the wind, silver sword in the air, white charger reared back and pawing the air. The other side, the side that had suffered humiliations and pain, knew that there was no knight in shining armor, and no fairy tale ending waiting for her. "Sofia-" A finger fell across her lips. "I don't make promises that I can't keep, Sara, and I promise you this. I swear on my shield, on my grandmother's grave, one way or another, I will get you out of here." She looked at the orange prison uniform and cuffs, "Out of those."

Sara tired to say something, but couldn't. Sofia's lips, soft and unpainted, met hers. Shock abated, replaced by a sensation that swamped her. She closed her eyes as Sofia's hand slipped down to her neck and pulled her even closer. Instead of red or black, Sara could have sworn that she saw a radiant gold behind her lids. Sofia teased her lips open and the taste of the other woman intoxicated. Honey and champagne, two things she hadn't had in years, but the memory of their tastes paled in comparison to the taste of Sofia Curtis. She had dreamed of this, so many times, so many ways. She had dreamed of this so many nights, had longed for it with every letter. She lifted her hands, she wanted – needed - to twist her hands up in Sofia's gorgeous blonde locks.

The clanking and restricting pain of the handcuffs that she was still wearing broke the moment. Sara pulled away, pulled away from her personal heaven, and looked at her hands. They were scarred, pale and most importantly, shackled. The metal bracelets and chains served to remind her of her position. She was Prisoner S38401S, a convicted killer. The wink of gold at Sofia's waist served to remind her that she had just been kissing Lieutenant Curtis of the LVPD.

She looked back into Sofia's eyes. "I-We can't." Her words were little more then a whisper. She could feel the thrice-damned tears building up behind her eyes again.  
Sofia, her hands over her own, their fingers were tangled together; more than friends, this was the tangle of lovers. The warmth of the other woman's hands combated with the steel that were wrapped around her own wrists. "Sara."

She wanted to cry, so she chuckled a little. "You're risking your career again, over me, again." The sneer that went across Sofia's face told her what the woman was going to say before she said it. "And my case."

That made Sofia's face go blank. Sara leaned in, resting her head against Sofia's shoulder. "Just sit with me for a minute, okay?" They did sit together. Neither spoke, and with the exception of Sofia's hand stroking her curly mop of hair, neither of them moved. It was perfect.

* * *

Catherine put her hand against the two-way glass that separated her from Sara and Sofia. How long had she been there? It was all foggy now. She vaguely remembered the boys leaving and Jim talking to Sara. She told him about Ellie. The woman hadn't mentioned any parole hearing, but their conversation had been about Sara.  
Sara. Sara hadn't asked Jim for his help, or asked anything of him. She had told him of Ellie and her need of him. 

She had smiled at him, had almost looked happy. That stung. Sara knew whom she could rely on, Jim above herself. Catherine sighed, then again, she had put the nails in Sara's casket; she wouldn't trust herself either.

Then Sofia had come in. _That_ had to be love; real, true, honest to God, love. Sara looked at Sofia like she was her rock, her lover and her savior all rolled into one glittering package. The kiss had been sudden, but had lasted longer than any spontaneous one-sided kiss would have. Sara broke it off, protecting - or trying to at least - Sofia's career. Through tragedy, and pain, death and imprisonment, they had found each other. They had fallen in love, though Catherine wondered if they hadn't started falling for one another long before Gil had been murdered. Even now, Sofia was holding her, stroking Sara's hair, comforting her. It should have made her mad, Catherine mused, and it did. Not mad at Sara, and not mad at Sofia, though. Mad at herself, at God, at anything and everything.

What would have happened had Gil not been killed? Would he and Sara had called it off? Would Sara and Sofia have gotten together? Would she be at peace? Would anyone be happy? Her fists bunched together so hard that her nails cut into her skin. Gil _was_ dead, though. Sara was their only suspect, or was she their only witness? Sofia was fucking, almost literally, the case and Catherine didn't have enough to know what was the truth and what the lie anymore. She watched them break apart. Sara straightened Sofia's collar, and Sofia wiped another stray tear from the brunette's eye. Sofia let the deputy, who had taken a _very_ long coffee break, back in.

She turned her back before they left the room. Emotions boiled and frothed inside of her. A fine mist, as red as blood and thick as fog, blurred her vision. She had stacks of paper work, background checks, inventory invoices, everything in the world to go over. She had an empty house, silent as a tomb with only Lindsey's barren room as a reminder of her girl, to go home to. She had to get out. She needed some kind of release. She needed to calm down, to get control. She had to get control before she lost it all. She needed, she hated needing anything. She did, though, she needed badly and she needed it now.

Author's Note: Happy Jo writes more, reviews make Jo happy...now if we can all connect the dots here.


	30. Chapter XXIX: Peculiar Hazards

Author's Note: The following is a peculiar, and most likely unexpected, chapter to be sure. A step to stage left, if you will. A slight deviation from the main story, but an interesting and enlightening one.

There are a couple of reasons I wrote it. First, Catherine has been portrayed as harsh, and somewhat unforgiving. At the same time, she is riddled with guilt and anger. Greg turned to drugs, Warrick to his kids, and Nicky to Texas. This is what Catherine turned to. The second, and secondary, reason for this chapter is much simpler. El Gringo Loco hinted, several times, that he would like to see this happen. As this story sprang from an off hand comment in a review he sent me, I think it all fits in rather nicely.

I enjoy conversing, obviously, with everyone; and yes, I actually listen. So keep the reviews, full of critique, suggestions, guesses, challenges and anything else you'd like to throw in coming.

Now, ladies, gentlemen, and especially El Gringo Loco, enjoy.

_Chapter XXIX_

_Every Job Has Its Peculiar Hazards_

The darkness, a messy storm of anger, sorrow, and some power she'd yet to understand or give a name, that raged away inside her was almost comically foiled by the delicate bone china cup in her hand. The sunshine came through the window and Chopin played in the background. It was a civilized tea, down to the very European choice between white and brown sugar, in a gorgeous room; too bad she had long ago lost her temperament to enjoy her time in her sanctuary. She drank her tea without sweetener. The brew was not bitter enough to call for it. Just a little bit of cream, she had found that she not only liked to take her tea with cream, but preferred it that way. She needed this, though did not fully understand why. She had needed something. Greg had turned, destructively, to drugs. Warrick had turned to his children, Nick to his family. Lindsey hadn't needed her, not like Catherine had needed her to need her. She had refused to burden her teenage daughter with her pain. Sofia, even while Catherine had damned her along with Sara, had turned to work. She had turned to this.

"Catherine."

Had personal salvation ever sounded so sweet? Had sanity ever been so beautifully perverse? Had she chosen this path because of Gil or because of her own attraction? On one hand, she questioned her return, and on the other, she wondered how she could have stayed away for so long. Conflicted, but unable to resist, Catherine turned away from the window and looked to the room's open door. She had found herself here after the funeral. There were a thousand other places she could have ended up, but she had come here, been led by the hand, here. Crying, angry, and needy, Catherine had found comfort here - in this most unexpected place - with her, the most unexpected of lovers.

"I was wondering when you would come and see me again."

Lady Heather, Mistress of her home, of her Dominion, regarded her for a moment, and Catherine found herself staring, again. At forty-two, Heather was as gorgeous as she'd been the very first time Catherine had met her. Her first time to Lady Heather's Dominion was one of the memories that she doubted would ever fade, no one ever forgot their first time. As many times in the past few years as she had come, she would always remember the first time. She would remember the first wisps of conversation she'd had with Heather, mostly about the case, but a few words about her daughter, Zoe, who would forever be twenty-three. While she was not dressed for the "needy boys" as Heather called her clients, she was still a Gothic vision. From the frown lines on her face and the briefcase in her hands, Heather had been at a business meeting. Juliet, Heather's right hand girl, had told her as much when she arrived. Catherine had learned, years and years ago, that the sex business, and by extension the fetish business, was just that. Business. Heather might spend her evenings spanking bad boys, or supervising the spankers, but her days were often filled with meetings and time spent with computers. It never ceased to amaze and amuse Catherine to see Lady Heather, Dominatrix, Mistress of Vegas, taking out her wrath on a laptop's keyboard. In the time it took Heather to walk from the door to the table, Catherine had prepared her tea.  
A rare smile came across the other woman's face as she took a sip. "Thank you."

Heather's voice was warm, and any lingering aggravation with business matters was packed away to be dealt with later. Heather asked about Lindsey, as she always did. Catherine relayed the latest conversation she'd had with her. Lindsey had taken to college like a duck to water and her emails and phone calls were always full of people she hadn't met and snippets of classes that she'd never been able to take. She missed her daughter and Heather understood the feeling all too well. In turn, Heather spoke of her meeting, the one that had left her wanting to take her accountant to one of her special rooms and flog him. Catherine liked it when Heather got on a roll. Describing the idiocy she had to deal with night in and night out, combined with the idea that she was some kind of brainless bimbo, she could go on for days. Catherine lost track of what she was saying and just listened to her voice, even worked up, the warm, dulcet tones soothed her more than anything else.

"Catherine."

A hand, cool and soft came over hers. "I've been reciting my grocery list, where were you at?" Her tone held just a hint of disapproval. Usually Heather, Lady Heather, held the room's attention. Catherine was no exception to that.

"I'm sorry, I'm just..."

Heather cut her off, "Distracted, and with good reason."

Catherine ran her fingers through her bangs. "Yeah." Heather tilted her head to the side, a silent signal for her to continue. "You heard we reopened the case." A nod and another tilt of the head. "What you haven't heard is that we've found proof that Sara Sidle was probably - almost certainly - framed."

That statement met more silence and Catherine looked down at the table for a moment. She could lie and Heather would never know. Heather didn't know of her role. She had known that she had testified at trial, but not what she had said. She wasn't brave enough to tell her either, not yet. She stood and went to the window again. "We've reopened the case. My team came back, my guys came back to help."

Catherine could see her ghostly reflection in the window, she could see the small smile that ghosted across her own face. "We're chasing down new leads, using new techniques and technologies on old evidence. Working with unbiased eyes. One lead, one suspect we looked at." She turned to face Heather, "Sara Sidle's mother. She killed Sara's father the exact same way that Sara - that someone - killed Gil. She was actually here, in Nevada, in Barstow, when it happened. Opportunity, motive, and the right M.O. and I didn't even care to look into it five years ago. Hell, I didn't even look at all at the files. I _knew_ it was Sara. I talked to Laura, her mother, today… well, yesterday now. Cold and hard, a rabid ally cat has instincts that are more maternal than she does. The hair color was wrong, though, so I can rule her out as a suspect." She seriously doubted that Heather fully followed her now, she was rambling, but she needed the release. "She looked at me, as we were leaving."

_Earlier_

"_You never asked me, you know."  
Catherine turned, "Asked you what?"  
Laura took a long drag on her umpteenth cigarette, "If I think she did it."  
Catherine blinked and felt acutly uncomfortable, "Okay, do you think Sara did it?" _

Laura stubbed the cigarette out. "I don't know." Catherine turned to leave again, disgusted, but Laura continued. "I've met women who've killed and given less thought than you put in that outfit. No one wears a sign that says 'Murderer' and everyone are capable of taking a life."

Catherine couldn't help but remember Sara's words, which had amounted to exactly the opposite.

"I remember, though, when Sara was a kid. Five or eight, somewhere in that general area, the late seventies sometime. We kept these horses on the back of the property. The details are fuzzy, but Frank had to put one down one day. Sara pitched a fit, Frank wouldn't hear a word of it. She kept on though, even after he'd knocked her one. He made her watch. She cried for hours, wouldn't speak for nearly three weeks, Sara always was a drama queen. She stayed down there with that damn horse's corpse until her brother dragged her away. Even after we hauled the corpse away to the dog food factory, she had a little funeral for it."

Catherine shuddered, even now, a full day later, the memory disturbed her.  
"What kind of mother, what kind of person does that? Does that to a child?" She shook her head, "And I'm no better. I helped frame her. I might as well have killed her. She _almost died_ and that night, I was glad. I almost killed her, Heather, what kind of person does that make me?"

Her reflection was joined by a darker one. "No better than I." Catherine turned and looked at the other woman. Seven years her junior, and more elegant than she had ever been, Heather stared right back at her. Green eyes, dark and mysterious, met her own blue. "I never told you; but I went to see her, right after the trial."

Catherine narrowed her eyes, and Heather stepped back and motioned towards the opulent overstuffed chairs. They sat and Heather looked off. "I was angry, you see. You remember what happened after Zoe. I went to stare down Gil's killer. We weren't lovers, or even terribly close, but he was a dear friend, perhaps he could have been more, but she had stolen him and the possibilities. I wanted to stare his murderess down, eye to eye.

* * *

_2007_

_At five foot eleven and one hundred and fifty pounds, almost all of it muscle, Miranda Johnson didn't look like a woman who would get on her knees and beg to be flogged and then urinated on, but once a month, the woman came to her Dominion and did just that. By day the woman, the needy little submissive, worked in a Women's Prison as a guard on the most dangerous ward, the one that kept violent murderesses locked up tight. Miranda had been thrilled to help her arrange this little off-the-record meeting with the woman who had slaughtered Gil Grissom. _

_  
As Heather waited on one side of the glass and wire barrier that kept the inmates and visitors apart, she wondered what she would see. She was an excellent judge of character; Gil had called her an Anthropologist, even. What would she see in Sara Sidle's eyes?_

_The woman, dressed in an orange jumpsuit that bagged in the hips, was brought forward and Heather could not find what she was looking for. She had seen pictures from, oh yes, clips of television coverage. The cool and composed, suit-wearing brunette that those had shown was gone. Thin to the point of frailness, this was a different woman all together. The most eye-catching thing, though, was the white bandage that was around her throat. A voice creaked through the phone that she held to her ear, and she blinked.  
_

"_Lady Heather, I presume."  
_

_She presumed correctly, and Heather said so. _

_Her eyes, Sara Sidle's eyes, had caught her own. Large, they dominated her almost skeletal face, and liquid brown, Heather had never seen such sad eyes in all of her days. These eyes knew loss; these eyes knew sorrow, betrayal, and just a little bit of anger. Heather had stared into the eyes of her daughter's killer, and as she looked into Sara Sidle's, she knew. She knew, without a doubt, that Sara Sidle was as innocent as she was, and as much of a victim as Gil had been._

"_You didn't kill him."_

_The woman on the other side of the barrier, a woman whose humanity had been stripped away and replaced with a neat and tidy number, blinked. The voice, raspy, painful and barely above a whisper, answered her.  
"Did you?" It was a plausible question.  
"No."  
They sat for a moment, staring at each other.  
"You loved him."  
Sara only nodded.  
Heather saw the unasked question in her eyes, and answered it. _

"I told her I didn't get a chance to see if I loved him."

* * *

Catherine sat there, stock still. She heard, but she could barely understand. "You knew... you knew she was innocent, for all this time and you didn't tell me? Why?"  
She didn't love Heather, nor did Heather love her, not in the traditional sense, at least. She couldn't say that Heather was just a friend, but neither could see them spending the rest of their lives together. Like the rest of her life, her relationship with the dominatrix was complicated.

"Would you have believed me?"

It wasn't a question, it was a statement of fact. They both knew that she wouldn't have. How many times had she come here, cursing Sara's name, Sara's supposed crime, her very existence?

Catherine sighed, "No, but I wish. God." She lifted her hands, and then let them drop limply to her lap. "I put her on Death Row, Heather. I condemned her, abandoned her, betrayed her. Now, five years later, I'm trying to free her. Nothing makes sense any more. Truth, lies, guilt innocence, I'm lost and I'm dragging her down with me - again." Catherine buried her face in her hands, fighting off tears.

She had learned to deliver pain and pleasure here. Heather had once told her that she had the makings of a great dominatrix, and she had been right. She had always been in control, or at least had felt the illusion of power. She had been mistress to many and equal to only one. She had exorcised her burning anger, her hate, time and time again. She had learned to wield a whip and make leggy brunette submissives scream. She had taken them to the precarious line between perverse pleasure and true pain and had hated that it was not Sara begging for mercy. Had Heather known? Without a doubt. She couldn't face the other woman.

Fingers caressed her face, threaded through her hair; they gently tilted her face up again. "If you want to find your way in a maze, Catherine, you must start at the middle and work your way out in order not to be deceived by tangents and shortcuts. Once direction and soul has been found, everything will slot into space. Once esteem is recovered and sins are forgiven, on at least a personal level, all will be resolved." Then Heather kissed her, and she found herself falling under the lady's - her lady's - spell.

"I didn't tell you because it would only hurt you, Catherine. Even now, it wounds you. Every job has its peculiar hazards." She smiled at her, "Mine is scars."  
She held out her hand, a scar ran the length of Heather's palm. "Scars of the physical sort." She looked down at Catherine. "Your job leaves you scarred here." She touched Catherine just above the heart. "And I hate to see my girl, my best girl, hurting any more than she has to."

Heather pulled Catherine to her feet and into her own arms. She put a light kiss on Catherine's temple and began to lead her to her bedchamber. "You've been so angry for so long. Angry at Sara, angry with Gil, angry at yourself. You need to let it go now."

Catherine could find no words, there were none to say because Heather was right; she always was.


	31. Chapter XXX: Failing Up

_Chapter XXX_

_Failing Up_

Conrad Ecklie put the phone back in its cradle gently. He didn't slam it down, but put it down and listened to the gentle click that signaled the connection had been cut.

His office was the largest the building had. He'd had it professionally decorated the year before. Pictures of himself with various members of the city, state and national government were tastefully framed and hung on the wall. The same went for his degree and the various citations and relevant newspaper clippings he had collected over the course of his esteemed career with Las Vegas and the Crime Lab. _His _Crime Lab. He had toiled on every level here, as a CSI, as a supervisor, as Deputy Chief, and now as Acting Chief. Next election he was confident he'd be the new Under Sheriff. It was not, perhaps, the most important position he could have, but he had certainly _earned_ it. He would not let anyone or anything come between himself and his well-deserved triumph.

He had toiled in the field, hadn't he? Suffered the indignity of digging through trash and handling dead bodies, all for the sake of catching half-wit criminals. He had argued and played referee, he had been treated like a second-class citizen to the great Dr. Grissom. He had taken hits and been knocked down by cases, by the sheriff, by the press. He had gotten through it all, had persevered. He _deserved_ everything he had; he'd worked at it, carved a career out of a field that had one of the highest burnout rate in the country.

Career. That was something he and Grissom had never seen eye to eye on. Grissom had thought himself to be some kind of a warrior for justice. An LVPD knight with evidence as a sword and logic for a shield. He had championed the victim and answered to few. He and his band of merry Graveyard misfits, with Sara Sidle as his infallible Lady. She had fallen, though, and so had he. Where had his idealism gotten him? Where had her obsession gotten her? Not here. He may not be as talented as they had been, but here he was, alive and free. He knew how to work in and around the system. He knew when to turn a blind eye, when to lower the boom, and went to shut up and take what was offered. Some might call that being dirty, but it was all apart of politics. You blackmailed, you accept bribes, and you exchange favors. It was all well and good when you were in the driver's seat. When _you_ had the dirt on someone else. No one had ever asked what had happened to the files on the various casino moguls of Las Vegas. The investigation into a man whose obsession with literally being babied had come first. It had been so very easy, and immensely profitable, to photocopy them all. Sam Braun had almost cried like a baby when he'd read a few lines from the nice, thick file he'd gotten. It had been child's play to milk the man out of millions. Braun hadn't wanted his precious Mugs to know about his dirty past and present. Those were the sort of politics he enjoyed.

He despised being on the receiving end of such tactics. Yet, he was, and it had to be dealt with, whether he liked it or not. He had far too much to lose now. He had to keep up the ruse, because the headline: Conrad Ecklie framed innocent CSI would not help his campaign. Then again, he could have blown the whistle that very day, but he hadn't bothered. He had thought Grissom and Sidle would get in _trouble_. He had wanted to be able to fire both of them and smear them so they could never work in law enforcement again.  
Death and imprisonment had never crossed his mind, but five years was far too long a time to go back and cry over spilt milk. Even if he had been inclined to feel sorry for Sidle, which he wasn't, he didn't have time to feel guilty, which he wasn't. He had an investigation to end.

Cryptic clues: that was what he had. Industriously he followed the instructions he'd been given. As much as it burnt him to be following the instructions of an _underling_, he did. The LVPD Mainframe was a simple set up; a child could work with it. The upgrades, that had finally been finished, made it even easier. All video taken in Interrogation, complete with time stamp and crystal clear audio, was downloaded and filed electronically, almost immediately.

As the files he was looking for, Interrogation Room 4, early morning, loaded up, Conrad looked out the wide window to his side. He needed Sidle out of his hair, back to where she belonged. Her presence was stirring up trouble. Of course it had always done that.

"_You couldn't hack it in the field, so you fail your way up, you break up our  
team, and now you just hang out in the hallways waiting for one of us to screw up."_

A subdued pin from his computer alerted him and he turned around to face the streamlined screen. It started slowly, with Sidle just sitting there. He had no idea why she would be in the interrogation room. Catherine had not informed him of any new information. In fact, Catherine hadn't said anything to him, by memorandum or otherwise, about the status of the case. Then, the door opened and Conrad saw the Indian Gold of the entire disaster. Warrick Brown, Nick Stokes and Greg Sanders, all playing nice with the convicted murderer of their mentor. Stokes and Sanders weren't even with the department any more. Stokes was with Dallas and Sanders with LAPD; apparently LA didn't have a problem with having addicts in their employ.

He watched them banter, though he didn't listen. The Night Shift Dream Team, at one time those four, along with Catherine and Grissom, had been unbeatable. Journal Articles, close rates, national attention. Grissom's Team had been inching closer to the high bar set by Quantico; they had been the reason the Las Vegas Crime Lab had been number two. The best of their field, all but hand picked and trained by the fallen hero of Forensics.

When the three stooges left, another familiar face came in. Jim Brass, _Retired Captain_, Jim Brass. It was a heart-warming scene, one that some movie of the week director would just _love_. Catherine had not only allowed two CSIs who had no place in Vegas in on the investigation, but a man who was retired. This case had long ago crossed the line between frivolous and corrupt. Some would say compassionate or even judicious. With the right spin, though, he had a lab full of dirty CSIs. CSIs that had been thorns in his side for _years_.

In one swoop, he could take care of Sidle, Willows and Brown, and come out looking like a hero. Conrad Ecklie: Stomping out Corruption within the LVPD. It had a nice ring to it, the kind of ring that appealed to the left and to the right, to the cop and the civilian.

He was about to download the entire, damning play, when the third act began. Lieutenant Curtis dismissed the guard. He leaned forward, interest piqued.

"_I don't make promises that I can't keep, Sara, and I promise you this. I swear on my shield, on my grandmother's grave, one way or another, I will get you out of here - out of these."_

Sofia Curtis, a woman he'd once trusted as his right hand, was kneeling in front of Sidle. Close, breathing the same air, touching her. Then, Conrad Ecklie watched the two women kiss. The bitter dregs of disgust mixed with the sharp acid of lust and the honeyed taste of triumph rushed over him. It was better than sex. He hadn't even had to give them rope, and they'd staged a mass hanging. Sidle was going back to the penitentiary, Curtis, Brown and Willows were all as good as fired and no one ever needed to know about his deal with the devil.

Turning a blind eye to murder, perhaps he was even a conspirator. He wouldn't let one isolated incident hold him back. If he hadn't struck the deal, he would have lost everything.

As much dirt as he had on the movers and shakers of Vegas, there was just as much about him, and it had all fallen, oh so neatly, into the hands of one who would destroy him without a second thought.

It was kill or be killed, and Conrad Montgomery Ecklie was no one's victim. A patsy, a mole, a tool, perhaps, but he was not a victim.

He downloaded everything to his personal DN and picked up the phone, ready to do business.

Author's Note: Yes, Ecklie was involved. Also,there was an oversight last chapter: Lady Heather's comment about finding one's way through a maze was not mine. Credit for that little nugget of knowledge goes to icklebitodd.


	32. Chapter XXXI: All For Naught

_Chapter XXXI_

_All For Naught_

"You should really pay more attention to one of the women who are laying everything on the line to get you out of prison, you know." Lexine Verona watched Sara Sidle, a woman she had known for more years than she'd like to lay claim to, stiffen up and blush. The color was good for her, it gave life to a too-pale, too bony face. It was also a telltale sign that something was up in the City of Sara. The woman had a Poker face that would make the most hard-core high roller flinch, but she could not control her blushes. Lexine had a good idea that this particular blush had something to do with a certain Police Lieutenant.  
Good for them. God knew Sara deserved a little happiness in her otherwise awful life. That didn't mean, however, that she couldn't tease Sofia, mercilessly.

Things being as they were, though, she wished Sofia were here. She hated being the bearer of bad news, and anything having to do with her mother was bad news in Sara's mind. She wanted to soften the blow, or better yet, not deliver it at all. Sara had suffered so much already, did she really need to know that Laura was not only out of prison, but had been within spitting distance of her? The only reason she was mentioning it was because she didn't want Sara to hear it from someone else. Catherine Willows wasn't exactly the master of tactful delivery. In fact, Lexine was pretty damn sure the woman would throw it in Sara's face, just to see her flinch. You couldn't teach an old bitch new tricks, and Catherine Willows was both old and a bitch. Her guilt trip would eventually run out and she, once again, would throw Sara to the side, like trash. It was only a matter of time.

"I'd hate to be the one who's pissed you off."

Sara, dark curls falling into her eyes, looked up at her. "Because you look like you're about to ask someone to step into the ring to go a few rounds."  
In that moment, she saw the Sara of yesteryear. Young, vivacious, dedicated, happy. God, she hated this part of the job. She sat down and put her hands over Sara's cuffed ones.

"Yesterday Catherine and Detective Tipps talked to someone about the case, about you..."

* * *

Catherine pushed her hair out of her eyes and signed off on yet another document. Paperwork, even the digital sort, was her least favorite part of the job. It was, however, the best way to keep her hands busy, keeping her from jumping down her team's throats. The mundane parts of the job, the mundane cases that she and her team could work in their sleep were gumming up the works. Sara's life was hanging in the balance and she was signing off on a slamdunk drug related B&E by a three time loser in North Vegas. Cadets could have solved it. Murders, rapes, assaults, robberies, she wished she had about five more CSIs, another tech in each lab and about three more of herself to keep them all in line. She didn't have any of that. What she had was a cold cup of the sludge the Lab tried to pass off as coffee, a monster of a headache, and a full night ahead of her.

"Catherine did you text me?" Happy for the momentary distraction, if not with the identity of it, Catherine looked up. Sofia was standing in the doorway of her office, her face creased with worry lines. Catherine put down the stylus she'd been using on the DN. Sofia frowned at her own DN, "It says it's urgent."

"It is."

Sofia bristled, like a dog raising its hackles. Catherine could see the other woman's jaw working, clenching together, biting down on whatever response she had for the man behind her. Slowly, Sofia turned on her heel, and Catherine was both amused and concerned to see that the Lieutenant's hand went down to the butt of her holstered Glock.

"Ecklie" Sofia's voice was frigid; the two syllable name was delivered with a heavy dose of ice and snow. It was no more than he deserved.

Catherine stood up behind her desk. "Something I can get for you, Conrad?" Her own voice was only a scant few degrees warmer than Sofia's had been.

Though Sofia didn't move aside to let him pass, Ecklie eased around her and walked into her office. Walked in, barged in, as if he owned the damn place. He looked smug, almost pleased with himself.

Sofia looked him over with a harsh and unforgiving eye, "What brings you slumming with the peons tonight, Ecklie?" Sofia had been none too pleased when Ecklie had demoted her years ago, and over the years the dislike, mutual dislike, had steadily grown to something along the lines of epic proportions. Ecklie, who usually ignored Sofia all together, citing that he didn't deal with simple-minded badge jockeys, gave her a smile. It wasn't a nice sort of a smile, or even a leering one, it was one of cold calculation. It was at that moment that Catherine realized that Conrad knew something and it wasn't going to be good for anyone.

Not being a showman, except for the press, Ecklie didn't pause for a dramatic reveal, he plowed right down to business. "Would you like to tell me why I have tape of three CSIs, two who don't even work here, one of them a known junkie, schmoozing with a _prisoner_? Brown, Stokes and Sanders were in that interrogation room with Sidle, acting like they're all good friends." He didn't even pause for a break. "Of course, this whole old-timers network you have going on is heart touching, really. Combine that with the little romance Curtis has going on, I could sell this whole thing to _Lifetime_ for a mint."

For a minute, Catherine couldn't think. When that minute passed, she was barraged with thoughts, none of them good. Most of them were nasty, spite filled curses about Ecklie. They questioned his and his mother's sexual practices, and were best kept to herself. "What are you talking about?"

Ecklie smiled again. "The tea parties down in the interrogation room. Pampering Sara Sidle, a convicted-to-death-row murderer." He turned his head to Sofia, "And the _make out_ sessions." He shook his head, "I've already called IA and the Sheriff, and," He turned to Sofia again, with a definite smirk on his face, "Your Captain. This investigation is over. Sidle is going back to jail, and I seriously doubt you two will ever see the good side of the criminal justice system again." With that parting shot, he turned to leave.

Catherine had never let anyone walk all over her. Not Eddie, not Sam, and she was not about to let Conrad-fucking-Ecklie leave his shoe prints on her back. "You slimy son of a bitch."He paused, but didn't turn around. "Watch yourself, Catherine. Do you want to leave under your own force, or be _escorted _out of the building?"

A hand descended on her arm, holding her in place. "Let him go, Catherine."  
At the door, Ecklie paused. "The case is over, it will be filed away to be forgotten and Sidle is being escorted back to the Penitentiary as we speak."

Sofia stood beside her, her fingers digging into her arm, and Catherine wondered if who exactly was holding back whom at this point, until Ecklie had turned the corner and was out of sight. As soon as he was gone, Sofia's fist, white at the knuckles, hit Catherine's desk hard enough to spill her coffee. "Damn it to hell." The woman's voice was quiet, barely more then a whisper, but the violence in it. The icy, barely controlled violence and anger in her voice that scared Catherine. It scared her because at the moment, Sofia was very capable of it, and worse, so was she.

"How long do you think we have?"

Sofia shrugged stiffly and reached for her cell phone, "Not nearly long enough."

Catherine nodded and pulled her service weapon out of the top desk drawer, "You have a Plan B?"

Sofia shook her head, grimly. "Yes."

The gleam in her eye, the rasp to her voice, it was still dark, still very dangerous.

"Am I going to like it?"

Sofia brushed her blonde hair back and hooked the phone over the back of her ear so the bud was correctly positioned so she could hear, "No."

Catherine started dialing on her own phone, "Explain on the way."

* * *

When Gillian got the PD, Officer Montoya already had Sara Sidle in full chains, ready for transport. Sara's lawyer, Lexine Verona, was raising seven kinds of hell, and as soon as Gillian came into the room, the black woman rounded on her. "Is this Catherine's idea of a Good Will Ambassador?" I want Lieutenant Curtis on the phone _now._"

"Sofia's on her way." Gillian looked over her shoulder to see Detective Tipps coming in behind her. "But right now, we have to move the prisoner."

Verona drew herself up to her full height, which was no where near that of Tipps or Gillian. "The prisoner has a name."

The prisoner stood quietly, her dark eyes taking in everything and everyone. "Catherine sent you?" Gillian nodded, "Ecklie's thrown a monkey wrench into everything." Her face twisted into a sour sneer at the mention of the man's name.

Sara nodded and looked to her lawyer. "It's all right, Lexi, it's like I said, I'll be fine."  
Though she looked far from convinced, Lexine clasped Sara's cuffed hands in her own and pulled her into a hug. "I'm already on the phone, Sara, I'll wake every judge in this Godforsaken city up and have you out of there within the day."

Sara nodded, then shrugged at Montoya. Taking the signal, Montoya started walking her down the hall, towards the dock where a marked car was waiting on them. Tipps moved too, frowning as he went. Beside him, matching his stride was Gillian.

"I'm not to let her out of my sight, Boss's orders."

Author's Note: I'm like that one geeky kid who works at the movie theatre and saw the new Star Wars movie first: bouncing up and down WANTING to spill the beans, but wanting everyone else to see it for themselves.


	33. Chapter XXXII: Half Victory

_Chapter XXXII_

_Half Victory_

Fawn Drex hated to be stuck in the lab, but someone had to play operator. That role fell to her as Catherine and Sofia had gone with Sara Sidle, Warrick was persona-non-grata and Greg and Nick were to be ejected from the building as soon as they set foot inside. Armed with a laptop, her cell phone, and the evidence she had shanghai-ed from the Ecklie Squad, she locked herself into a small, back layout room and pulled down the shades. It wouldn't buy them a lot of time, but every minute counted right now. Her hands flew over the keyboard and she vaguely wished that Kieth was there to help. Her DN lay beside her, showing her own scrawled notes. Notes that didn't add up. She had built a career out of making sense out of cold cases. In all of her time in Detroit and Vegas, she had never run into a case that was so contradictory and mishandled. The facts were skewered and spastic, the tests, while positive, were ambiguous at best. The eyewitness accounts and Sidle's statements didn't gel with the theory; the theory didn't gel with the theory.

Records had been hidden, tapes lost-then-found. It was like a case covered up by a case. A frame-up job, an expertly handled one at that. Still, it was a five-year-old job, an eternity where technology was concerned.

Working backwards, she had found digital footprints all over the files. Some recent quick fixes, trying to stop the patchwork network of hidden files and secrets from being found, and some older, more complex dealings. Whoever had danced around with this case had led it through a complicated, double time Tango. The more she unraveled, though, the more it became perfectly obvious. Five years ago, the killer had planned out each step with careful foresight and absolute control. Now, with the pressure on, he or she was making mistakes, lots of them.

A series of chimes made her fingers pause and she quickly connected her cellphone to her DN with a couple of swipes of the stylus. "Nice of you to join me, Warrick."  
He sounded less then amused. "Can you tell me why I was ordered to leave the crime scene I was working into _Scooter's_ hands right in the middle of the investigation?"

Oh, she was going to get Catherine for that. It was not nice to make her the bearer of bad news. Another set of chimes told her that another player in their strange little show had arrived. Another quick tap or two of her stylus tied Nick Stokes into the conversation. She waited for Greg Sanders to call in (God, she wished she could get people to drag out the trampoline when she said 'jump' like Catherine could) and started explaining what happened. By the time the word, "Ecklie" had gotten out of her mouth, all three men had gone from slightly worried to highly pissed off. While she listened to the boys vent their outrage and hate for Ecklie, she worked. Her fingers flew over the keys and her eyes scanned over information. She was missing _something _and if she could just figure out what it was, they would have a leg to stand on. She listened to the boys talk to each other with half an ear; their cursing Ecklie wasn't going to help her solve the case, even if it was entertaining.  
She ran her fingers through her hair, and for just a moment, she paused to remember who had been doing the same thing that morning. A small smile flirted across her face and she shook her head to clear it of _that_ memory.

A quick look at the door told her that she was still alone. Alone with the files, alone with the evidence, alone with a case that was five years old. Though Warrick, Nick, and Greg buzzed in her ear, she was essentially alone with a cold case. This was her element, her niche; this was why she had become a CSI.

She could have done anything, between her mother and her father she had looks, brains and literally millions of dollars to burn. It was this, though, that had beckoned to her. Not just forensics, not just police work, helping to solve cases that had been shoved on a back shelf, almost forgotten. Bringing hope back to those who had lost it, justice to those who had lost faith in it. She wasn't going to let Sara Sidle or Gil Grissom, her fate and the truth behind his death, slip through her fingers. Not now, not this way.

"Guys." It was the first time she had spoken in a bit. "Walk me through it again. Start at the end of shift and don't stop until after the trial is over." The edge to her voice, the urgency that underscored it, got them to stop and Nick began speaking.

Fingers moving almost as quickly as his slow, accented words came, she began to lay out a time line on her computer and a picture in her mind. Both the time line and the picture were blurry, but it was beginning to play out. The story, grainy and black and white, began to pick up in her mind. Love, death, betrayal, guilt, and innocence. Sara Sidle, Gil Grissom, Catherine Willows, Greg Sanders, Nick Stokes, Sofia Curtis, they had all been actors on a stage, puppets whose master had greatly enjoyed tugging on the strings.

She was on the edge of an epiphany: that _something_ was on the edge of bursting to life in her brain. The evidence: DNA less hair that was morphologically dark and straight, latent latex molecules, electronic footprints, ones that could have only been left by someone with total, on-site access to the lab computers, that circled over each other. The testimony that was missing chunks and pieces, her own gut instincts. Questions, so many, many questions.

Why?

When?

How?

"Where were you?"

Lies disguised as answers, truth hidden under manipulation.

"I had to make a few calls, Baby."

This wasn't just a case, it had never been just a case. Even now, racing against IAB, fighting for every angle they could, it wasn't just a case. She hadn't even known Sara Sidle or Gil Grissom. She had never met them in life. She had, though, competed with their ghosts ever since she'd arrived. Fighting taboos for respect, always struggling to meet their high standards. With what they had, they didn't have enough to fully exonerate Sara Sidle of Gil Grissom's murder. All they had now was a half victory. They could tie the case up in court, for years and years. It wasn't enough, but for Sara Sidle, a half victory made the difference between life and death.

Just under the buzz of the guys' voices, echoing their memories of the past and her thoughts trying to make sense of the present, there was another sound, something that wasn't supposed to be there.

Looking at it, eyes wide, her lips mouthed the words that she couldn't get her mind to process, and her heart gave a lurch even as it shattered in her chest.

Author's Note: Please secure all lose articles, keep all hands and arms inside the car at all times, do not stand up (Really, never stand up, if you're not mangled in some way, you will be ejected from the park.) Now, enjoy the ride, it's going to be a wild one! (I spent a summer working at a theme park, can you tell?)

Please send the reviews on along!


	34. Chapter XXXIII: Seat Belts Save Lives

_Chapter XXXIII_

_Seat Belts Save Lives_

They were in a marked car, flying down the highway, leaving the bright lights of Las Vegas behind them. Sara watched the city fade behind them in the rear view mirror. She watched the bright tower of the casino that stood where the Tangiers once had, become smaller and hazier, and then it and the rest of Vegas disappeared. She had never learned the name of the casino and now, as she left it behind her, that little insignificant detail bothered her. She made herself look away. She watched the dark desert go by them. The roadway was quiet, only the roar of the passing trucks broke up the monotony of the dark asphalt and painted lines of the road.

Beside her - looking strangely out of place in the backseat of the marked car - was Detective Conner Tipps. His foot tapped to the time of whatever song Gillian, in the front passenger seat, had put on to drown out the police radio. Personally, she would have preferred the police radio. The almost constant chatter, officers coding on and off their shift, assignments being given out, being responded to, backup being called for, all the jargon of justice. She missed it and would have much preferred it to whatever hip-hop Gillian and Renee seemed to be enjoying.

Cuffed and chained, she didn't see the point of buckling up. They had tried, Sara couldn't quite figure out why they had, but it had been impossible to wear it correctly the way she was cuffed. They honestly couldn't be afraid of her causing trouble because, outside of being chained up, there were black iron riot bars between her and the front and the other three people had guns. It didn't take a Harvard degree to know that she was as secure as she could be. She sighed and watched the night pass by her. Minute by minute, mile by mile, she was going back to the Purgatory that she had hoped she'd escaped.

* * *

Sofia's car was unmarked, but it still had the Dodge Charger V8 and every toy a cop could want riding on the dashboard. Catherine had no idea why a Cold Case Detective would need radar, a night vision camera, and infrared tracking, but she had that along with an on-board link-up for her DN, riot gear and God only knew what else in the trunk. Maybe the Lieutenant had wanted to be a Boy Scout when she'd been growing up, because she was certainly prepared for anything and everything, up to and including the Apocalypse.

"Junction's coming up."

Catherine jolted and blinked herself out of her thoughts. Sofia, one hand on the wheel, picked up the mic for her radio. "They should have merged on; we're probably only a few minutes behind them now." Catherine nodded and watched as Sofia keyed up her radio and called after Papa-Two-Four-One-Tango, the designation Sofia had told Montoya to answer to rather than her usual radio ID. After a moment of waiting, Sofia added her own call sign and a stern "Report In." There was nothing.

Grumbling, Sofia muttered a command to her cellphone and Catherine could hear it dialing.  
"I would expect this from some, but not Renee." The concern was evident in her tone. Disregarding the radio, the Lieutenant gave her cell phone the voice command to dial Montoya. Intrigued, Catherine raised an eyebrow, "You have a uni on your voice dial?"  
Attention split between the road and the phone, Sofia only shrugged. "She's a natural, up for her shield, and I'd like to see her come to my department. She has a husband and a six year old son, and Cold Cases is a whole hell of a lot safer than Narco or Vice Detail."

Catherine remembered a time when being in the middle of the desert meant no cell signal at all. Within a minute of pinging around satellites high above their head, in orbit, she saw the small light on Sofia's earpiece go green. "Montoya? It's Curtis..."

* * *

The shrill tones of the department issued phones broke through the heavy bass of the hip hop. Gillian, Conner and Renee all checked and Renee came up the winner. She switched her hands on the wheel to free up her right so she could touch the bud in her ear to accept the call. There was a moment of silence, then Montoya shot Sara a look in the rear view, "It's Sofia."

Time, Sara would later muse, was a tricky bitch. She had spent five longer-than-eternity-years in prison. Every day had dragged into centuries, every minute into days. In five years, she had lived several lifetimes, all of them god-awful. In that moment, though, with Renee Montoya driving her and a squad car full of escorts back towards the Nevada State Women's Correctional Facility, or as she liked to call it, Hell on Earth, everything happened in a blur.

In less time than it took to draw a breath, the world turned itself upside down.

The bright white of a bullet leaving the muzzle of a pistol, the red of blood spatter, the white and gray of bone chips and brain matter hitting a shattered window. The sharp, unmistakable tang of burnt gunpowder and the equally sickening smell of sudden death.

The squad car jerked and veered wildly to the side, shooting across three lanes of traffic, not slowing down a bit from the previous seventy-five miles per hour they had been going at. Sara could feel the tires hit the rumble strips on the side of the road and then the dust of the narrow shoulder. The edge, there was a steep bank that led down into the desert proper, came quickly and the police car teetered on the edge then left the ground all together. For a second, everything was silent, as though being completely airborne had stolen the very ability to make sound from them all. When the car hit the ground again, on the desert floor, the chaotic sound of crushing metal brought everything to life again. Sara, unrestrained in a vehicular sense, was thrown against the solid mountain of a man beside her and for the barest breath of a second, she thought it was over.

Then she hit the ceiling with her head, they were rolling. Two times, a hundred times, it was impossible to tell. Every revolution of the car sent her in a new direction, the ceiling, the crushed passenger side of the car, the bars. The lights whirled wildly out in front of them and, distantly, Sara could hear the warped sound of the siren going off. She was thrown to the bars again and this time she wasn't as lucky as before. Her head kissed metal and Sara's world dissolved in a chaotic mess of white streaks, hazy red lines and the overpowering black of momentary unconsciousness.

* * *

She watched the blood drain out of Sofia's face. The Lieutenant didn't say a word; in a calm, deathly calm, manner, she reached up to the dash and turned out the lights. Gone were the days of globe lamps shoved up in the windshield. The Car had tiny LED lights on the outside, through the grill and around the windshield. Momentarily distracted by the lights, Catherine was surprised when the car jerked forward. Glancing over she noted that the speedometer had already passed eighty-five and was edging towards ninety miles an hour.  
"What happened?"

Sofia shook her head, "I don't know, but I heard two things I shouldn't have and one was a gunshot."

Hands trembling a bit, Catherine unsnapped the strap on her holster and brought out her gun. When was the last time she had drawn it in the line of duty? She couldn't remember. She drew it now, turned off the safety, and cocked it so there was a bullet in the chamber ready to be fired. Beside her, still one hand on the wheel, Sofia had done the same. Catherine didn't bother to look in the mirror, her frame of mind was perfectly displayed on Sofia's face. Jaw set, brows drawn so tightly that a dozen new lines had formed, and the eyes…  
Sofia's eyes were the darkest shade of blue, almost indigo, that Catherine had ever seen. Those eyes meant business and Catherine was glad that she wasn't on the other end of the stare.

She saw it first, far up ahead, off to the side of the road. It was only a smudgy dot in the dark distance, but Catherine knew exactly what it was. "Sofia."

The woman snapped her head to the side, "What?!" Her voice was raspy, almost a growl.

"On the left."

Sofia followed her eye line, cursed vehemently and put the pedal on the floor.

* * *

"Sidle."

She stirred, but didn't want to roll out.

"Sidle."

Fuck Rhett, fuck the system, she wasn't getting up. It hurt too much.

"Sara, wake up."

She didn't recognize the guard's voice and she was sitting up at a crazy angle. She made herself open her eyes. It took longer than she expected. When she did pry them open, she saw that the world was in chaos. Her brain tried to catch up, tried to understand what she was seeing. Sofia? Melissa? Where the hell was she?"

"Sara."

She looked to the side and began to remember. Connor Tipps, a Detective with the LVPD, looked down at her. He was suspended upside down, or was it she that was upside down? No, she was on the ceiling of the patrol car and he was still buckled in.

"Thank God you're okay, help me down."

How exactly was she going to help him, she didn't know. She raised her hand to wipe at the blood that was trickling into her eye and blinked when the chains didn't stop her. The binding had snapped, either from the violence of the crash or because Renee hadn't secured them all the way. It was probably a mix of both. She tried to sit up so she could help him and was met with a grand symphony of protests. Her abused body was not up to this task. Her side, the side that hadn't had time to fully heal from the yard stabbing, was slick with blood, again. She couldn't exactly feel the pain, but the fact that her orange jumpsuit had turned rusty-red, again, wasn't a good sign. When her adrenaline crashed, she'd be whimpering like a baby. Right now, though, she had to get out of the car.

"All right, If you can get the seatbelt, I'll ease you down."

Tipps hissed in pain, "My other arms pinned."

Sara got to her knees, "Okay I'll just-"

The gunshot echoed wildly in the car and Sara felt the sick splash of blood and brain hit her full on in the face. Conner Tipps hadn't even had a chance to draw his weapon to defend himself. He hung, limp in death, what was left of his jaw slack, empty eyes wide open. Over the ringing in her ears, Sara heard a voice.

"Get out of the Goddamn car."

Author's Note: Send reviews and left over Easter candy. I like to munch on black jelly beans while I write.


	35. Chapter XXXIV: The Defeat of Sara Sidle

_Chapter XXXIV_

_The Defeat of the Great Sara Sidle_

Cuffed and shackled, trapped like a terrified animal. Tipps was dead, and in the front, Renee Montoya was hanging from above, just as dead as he was. Bile rose up in her throat and her hands fisted up.

"Now, Sidle, and you try for a gun, you're dead where you stand. Out through the rear window."

She was shaking, but she made herself turn away from the corpses that had been two living, breathing people only seconds before. Shattered glass dug into her palms and knees, and the bent steel scraped her as she wiggled out of the back of the overturned car. When she looked up, she found herself looking into the barrel of a gun. The car's yellow emergency blinkers and the sluggish flash of red from the police-special break lights cast a ghoulish glow, making the woman holding the gun on her appear demonic. Maybe she was.

She drew in a breath and fought back the wince of pain it caused. Standing right there, only a scant few feet away was the source for her sorrows. This was the woman who had framed her, who had killed Gil, who had made her life a living hell.  
The bitch laughed at her. "How far the mighty have fallen. The Great Sara Sidle on her knees. I bet that's a position you've spent a lot of time in these last few years."

Still on her hands and knees, Sara stared her in the eye, "Gillian."

Unwilling to meet her fate on her knees, unwilling to go without a fight, Sara reached up and began to pull herself up, using the car for balance. How many times had she dreamed of this? Fantasized about it? Salivated over this chance?

She lifted her hands and wiped Conner Tipps' blood from her face. Day after day, long night after night, especially those she had spent in the Prison Infirmary or Solitary. Every time she had been forced to shower with other women staring at her, wanting to fuck her, wanting to kill her, a few neither and a majority both. She, this woman, Gillian Rayne, had been the cause of every humiliation and indignity she had suffered, had taken away everything that had been important to her. Before she had just been a bitch, now, though, Sara knew she was _The Bitch_.

A thousand curses, question, accusations, whirled through her mind and her hands fisted together, ready to attack. "Why did you have to kill them?" She looked pointedly at the car, "They didn't have any idea."

Gillian, gun in hand shrugged.

Sara looked at her, now, sizing the other woman up, the same way she had other murderers and criminals, with a wary and critical eye. She was tall and well muscled, a college athlete who had stayed in top shape. The other woman's dark hair blew wildly around her face and shoulders, caught in the desert wind. Her eyes, though, told Sara everything she needed to know. Dark, empty orbs that were narrowed, emotionless, merciless; she had killed before and had no fear or apprehension about doing it again.

"Montoya was a risk; Bitch was full of questions. As for Conner," She shrugged one shoulder, "I've always been a Bears fan anyway."

Her comments were made with a startlingly casual tone, as if she were discussing the weather or the recent fashion trends; it was disturbing. "But you're right." Gillian bit her lower lip, in almost a mischievous manner, and smiled, "They didn't have any idea, a bunch of clueless idiots with badges."

Sara shook her head, slowly, "They were figuring it out, _you_ were making too many _mistakes_." She waited a beat, then smirked, "But I knew it was you, _Junior."_ She took a step closer. "Who else could have done this? Who but a CSI could leave a scene so seemingly bare of evidence? Who would know how to manipulate what evidence there was against me? Who could go in and change reports, delete information, twist time stamps, and fake a phone call. I checked up on you, a double major, Computer Science _and_ Criminal Justice, you specialize in AV. You killed Grissom and then made the investigation into your own personal playground. If you hadn't been so damn cocky, you might have gotten away with it, but you got sloppy."

The hand holding the Glock twitched, ever so slightly. "Sloppy?"

Sara chuckled, "The oldest tricks in the book, Junior. You let me see you, and then returned to the scene of the crime. The jogger and the photographer. You were careful not to let anyone get a good look at your face, but not careful enough, especially when you stared me down at trial, from the gallery. You're not just sloppy, you're cocky and stupid."

The gun went off and Sara felt the wind and heat from the bullet fly past her cheek.

"So you think you're smarter than me? Why is it that they were pulling the needle out of you just a few days ago?"

Sara shrugged, and pretended that the memory didn't bother her. "I didn't say you were incompetent. Turning me against Catherine was slick. There were times that I would have happily believed that she was the one that had done this to me. You get the big picture; it's the details that escape you."

Gillian arched a brow, "The details? I had the details down pretty fucking pat."  
Sara arched a brow of her own, "Really? Because _everyone_ knows about her gloves, and I know you were in her locker, probably how you cloned her cell phone's SIM card to fake the call with. That little detail got you in the long run, didn't it?"

Gillian smirked, but before she could come back with anything, Sara pressed on. "What really got me, though, what sealed the deal, was my mother. You didn't plan on that, did you? It was a last minute fix. You probably found it when someone told you, the bottom rung CSI of the time, to run a search through VICAP. I may not like Catherine, but she would _never_ fuck a case like that." Gillian shook her head, "Check the facts, even she admitted that a VICAP check wasn't done."

Sara chuckled, "She was under stress, but I did check the facts. The DA did a search and by that time, your little fix had been… well, fixed. I held the printout in my hand at the trial, remember? I had to read it out loud so everyone knew about my family. I watched Catherine's mouth drop open and Nick's eyes go wide, and I knew it was the first time they'd heard anything about it. Even if it hadn't been that way, though, I would have known." Sara drew in a shaky breath. "Whether I like it or not, Laura's my mother. I knew about every move she made, every breath she took. When she was up for parole, when she was in solitary, reports from a source I had back in California came in every single week. I knew when she was paroled, I was called minutes after. I knew when she moved to Nevada, I knew that very day. You see I was always certain that Catherine had some idea, that she just hadn't shared it. When my lawyer told me about Catherine going to talk to Laura for the very first time today, well that's when it all fell into place. The last detail you missed, and it's an important one this time, Junior." Sara smiled, "Lexi had just gotten off the phone with Catherine when you barged in. She didn't mention you at all."

Rage played over Gillian face. Sara indulged in the wave of satisfaction at seeing it. Then, as quick as a rattlesnake, Gillian struck. The gun was shoved under her jaw and she was nose to nose with the other woman. Dark eyes, sparked with an inhuman light and Sara felt something inside her shudder. Fingers wrapped around her hair and pulled the curly mop taut, ripping strands out at the scalp. Sara clenched her teeth.

"If you're so fucking smart, the great Sara Sidle, the genius from Harvard, tell me this. Why did I do it?"

A hair's breath away from death, Sara looked the other woman, a murderess, in dead in the eye. "Daddy never bought you that pony you wanted for your tenth birthday?"  
The blunt pain of the pistol whipping across her face made her see stars yet again. She stumbled back two steps and coughed. She could feel a trickle of blood falling down her cheek.

"You don't know why?!" Gillian's words were louder now, they echoed in the empty desert, and more unsteady, they shook with anger. "You don't know why?"  
Still gingerly holding her throbbing face, Sara looked at her, "The more the why, the less the how, I thought you would have figured that out by now." Quoting Gil Grissom to the woman who'd killed him seemed so surreal, but she bet Griss would have found the irony amusing.

The gun was pointed at her face again, but now Sara could clearly see that the woman's hand was trembling. "I'll tell you why."

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. I have been very happily distracted lately! There are only a few chapters to go. Gillian is the killer, she always has been. Also, now that I've gone and killed her, maybe I should put in a last minuite disclaimer. Renee Montoya, the name not the charecter, was borrowed from DC Comics. Holy Name Drop, Batman, I shouldn't write when I'm tired.


	36. Chapter XXXV: Posioned Hearts

_Chapter XXXV_

_Poisoned Hearts_

Why had Gillian done this? Why had she killed Gil? Why frame her for it? The questions were achingly familiar to Sara. She had asked them a thousand times. What could she or Gil have done to deserve the fate that had befallen them? Standing, woman to woman, in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, with Gillian Rayne, she still didn't know.

"What did I ever do to you?" Her question was quiet, almost carried away by the wind.

Gillian was close enough, though, to hear her. A slow smile spread across the other woman's face. It was cruel, and triumphant; it was dangerous. "Who said it was about us?"

That had never been the answer she imagined hearing. "What?"

Gillian stared at her, gun still in hand. "You, him, that whole fucking wonder team killed and walked for it. Probably a hundred times over. It was time you felt what it's like to lose someone you cared about."

Sara blinked, "What the hell are you talking about? I've never killed anyone and neither did Grissom. We were scientists not vigilantes"

Gillian's hand twitched. "Never killed anyone?" She laughed, "As far as I'm concerned every cop and every CSI is just a murderer with a badge."

Sara stared down the other woman. "If you're going for the insanity plea, I've got to admit, you've got a good shot."

The breeze made strands of Gillian's dark hair dance around her face. "Jesse Overton."

The five syllables carried a tone of reverence and just a touch of sadness; they echoed through the desert night.

Names, names, names. Sara had spent years with names and faces, too many to recall. There were those she remembered, those that stood out. This wasn't one of them.

"That supposed to mean something to me?"

Gillian's lips curled into a sneer. "You don't remember him? You should; you played a role in his murder."

Mentally, Sara ran through names. Years' worth of names, cases, victims, criminals… nothing. It was very obvious that her life was riding on the line here. She was so close to getting her life back, she was not about to let a bitch like Gillian Rayne take it, again.

"I might. So, what's it to you?"

How had no one noticed this before now? Catherine was a CSI and even K Mart gave 'Are You a Psychotic Killer' tests with their applications.

Unsteady, Gillian stared her down, gun in hand. "They killed him, you know. Beaten and stabbed, he suffered because of that bitch. Because of you and your fucking friends. Your wonderful Gil Grissom and his fucking team. You killed Jesse. He was innocent."

* * *

_January 2002_

_Nevada State Correctional Facility_

_The doors clanged behind her as she went in. The air was warm and dry, but mostly stale. The entire complex reeked of desperation and the barely controlled violence of thousands of caged animals. Jesse didn't belong here. They were twins; they belonged together.  
Jill pushed her sandy brown hair out of her face as the guard sat her in front of a glass and wire window. There was a plastic black phone to talk to and an empty seat across from her. She twisted her fingers together and looked around at the other men in orange talking to their visitors. She looked around nervously and out of the corner of her eye, saw when the door opened on the other side of the glass. Another guard led Jesse down to his seat._

_He was thin, pale, and the hair he had once lovingly gelled into place each day was limp, stringy and it hung down in his eyes._

_"Jilly." His voice cracked just a little but he smiled._

_She smiled at him and was dismayed to see that one of his two front teeth was missing._

_"I've missed you, Jill. How are Mom and Dad? How's Danny?" Their parents and their little brother, all of whom had turned their backs on Jesse when he'd needed them the most._

_"I don't know, I've moved out. I don't talk to them, Jesse. Not with the way they're treating you."_

_He smiled a little. "We've always been a team, huh. You and me."_

_They had been. They had taken their first puffs of cigarette together, "borrowed" cars together. Hadn't they taken their licks together? Watched snuff films and laughed at the way the women had always jerked and twitched in death? Hadn't they spent long hours talking about destruction? Fed the Jurgin's golden retriever rat posion and anti-freeze just to see what would happen, watch it wheeze and shudder into a painful death together? They had covered for each other. She lied when he'd been out scoring with a girl, and he'd done the same for her. They were brother and sister, twins. They went through this every third Thursday of every month and constantly in their letters._

_She knew he was innocent. The fucking Collins girl had tricked him. The DA, Melissa Winters had lied to him, the shit lawyer, Sal Portins, the state had provided for him had fucked him. The cops, Detective Brass, Investigators Grissom, Willows, Stokes, Brown and Sidle had set him up. He had told her everything, everything her parents had lied about. How he had been confused and tricked. He'd also told her about how the blood had splashed on his jeans, on his face. She envied him._

_"It's bad in here, Jilly, really bad."_

_She nodded, and wished fervently she could get him out, but his so-called deal didn't even offer parole._

_"If I die, Jill, can you do something for me?"_

_She nodded and leaned forward, "Anything, Jess." He put his fist, with H-A-T-E tattooed on the knuckles, to the glass. "Get them for me."_

* * *

Sara was frantically sorting through the pieces, trying to run it through her memories.

"They said he'd be safe. His fucking lawyer cut a deal. The real killer, that fucking blonde slut is still walking around, alive and healthy as can be, but my twin brother is dead. My twin, do you even fucking understand that? We shared everything and now he's gone. You and your team framed him. You and that wheel-chair-bound freak put him away, and let the fucking perverts, druggies and murderers have him. Some fucking bastard strung him up with a towel and no one was ever punished, no one even cared. All everyone cared about, all you cared about was that fucking kid. Jesse died and no one cared. No one but me."

Information spun around in her head. Melissa had tried to warn her. Melissa spent more time with the victims, and the killer's families, than she ever had. She had recognized Gillian. That narrowed the field, as did the kid the woman was rambling about. Sara had rarely dealt with children. That had always been Catherine's niche. Give her evidence; give her science. Everyone had acted like she was completely incompetent, had believed her when she'd jokingly said she'd left Brenda Collins in her car.

Jesse Overton - Brenda Collins, the Collins Case. It was like an explosion in her brain. Jesse Overton, at the request of Tina Collins had killed four people, slaughtered the entire Collins family in one horrific night. It had been right after she'd moved to Vegas. It had been high profile and gut wrenching. She had become involved, had made it a little too personal. She had let herself become attached - to the case, to the circumstances, to Little Brenda Collins who had lost so much.

_"Something horrible happened in that house, didn't it, Tina? Long before the night of the murders."_

_"Her soul's still in the room."_

_"It's okay, Brenda, I'm not leaving you."_

_"We got them both. I don't much care why they did it."_

_"The Buffalo."_

_"Every time I go back and think about it, I know I could have done things differently, could have made things better for Brenda and me...but I'm still not sorry. I'm not sorry they're dead, Sara. They stopped being my family when they didn't protect me from him. He stopped being my father the first time he came into my room and lifted up my nightgown. My only regret is hurting my daughter...and dragging Jesse into it when I should have taken care of it myself. You saw what he did to my Brenda, would you have done any less?"_

"He killed four people, two of them just boys, in cold blood. Just for fun, just because he could."

The change was visible on the other woman's face, "IT WASN'T HIS FAULT!"

The gunshot almost drowned her out. The bullet went high and wide, but the explosion of sound made Sara's heart jackhammer all the harder.

"That bitch tricked him into it. We- I thought about suing, but the lawyers said you had an airtight case against him."

The scene flashed in Sara's mind, blurry, a little grainy from age, like a photograph that had faded in the sun.

_The father in the hallway in a pool of blood. The mother lying in bed, eyes wide open and terrified, un-clotted blood dripping from her fingers to the floor. Two boys, one hiding, trying to escape, bloody handprints smeared on the wall._

"I got the idea when Nick Stokes was buried alive."

Sara jerked her attention back to Gillian. Scenes of the Collins house melted away, only to be replaced by those nightmare images of Nick in the coffin.

"You guys pulled off this miracle rescue, just in time. It made me _fucking sick_. I realized then, that to beat you, I had to be just as smart, just as powerful, I had to be one of you."

She was on a roll now; had the situation not been so grave, so dangerous, Sara would have made a joke about melodramatic monologuing.

"I changed my name, went to school. Fucked Conrad Ecklie for my first job, almost right out of the Academy."

Old habit had Sara sneering at the mention of Ecklie's name. Somehow, she just wasn't surprised that he was so easy to manipulate.

"You were this big, happy family. Not even Catherine Willows putting the screws to you all shook that. You were so easy to pick out; they all turned against you almost without prompting. The outsider, the boss's pet. The fact that you were sleeping with the old bastard was icing on the cake."

Sara closed her eyes, just for a moment, and forced the bile back down her throat. Blood, Gil, the knife. She had always thought it had been about her mother and father. It had not; it was a play on the Collins scene, right down to the blood drops that had been on the floor. Murdered in his bed, stabbed, in retribution of a loved one.

"Why didn't you just die?" The question was filled with an undercurrent of rage. "You had to stay alive, convince everyone you've been a good girl. Won't it be a tragic epilogue to the Story of Sara Sidle, though? Killed two more police officers and wounded one of the CSIs that were only trying to help her. Too bad Catherine couldn't be here too, but a detective and a uni, that'll have them more than ready to pump you full of poison. Fingerprints on the gun, my eyewitness account."

Sara shook her head, "It won't work, they're on to you now."

Gillian laughed and pushed her free hand through her hair. "Funny thing about that, everything will show that Conrad Ecklie was the one who planted all the evidence, tampered with files, made all the phone calls. His passwords, his orders, his signatures. You can never imagine how useful pictures of that troll and a transvestite hooker can be. I've got him by the short hairs and he knows it. Though he was more than happy to frame you, you know. He wasn't there to see it, but he knew it was me, especially when I waltzed right into Wendy Simm's DNA lab and denatured the hair specimens she'd been testing. In hindsight, I must have missed some. Of course, he and I were the only ones in the lab during that coroner's wedding so even an idiot could have worked out who set up the phone call. He didn't even try to stop me. Blackmailed me a bit, but mostly he was busy covering the lab's ass." She chuckled and pushed her hair out of her eyes again. "If that fails, well, I have an airtight alibi. I spent all yesterday, when vital things were happening, files uploaded, downloaded, deals made, with another CSI. Fawn will attest to how attentive I was." The woman's dark eyes went distant just for a second and Sara wondered if Fawn Drex was still alive at all.

"Just between you and me, though Sara?" A cold, frightening, smile spread across the woman's face as she spoke. "Killing your lover was the greatest thrill of my life. Better than sex and the after glow has lingered on for_ years_. Give me one reason not to kill you now. Watch the life drain out of you, like it did him, and get away with it, again."

Sara couldn't believe her ears. It was so incredibly detailed, borderline genius, and the most sadistic, heartless speech she had ever heard. Goosebumps had risen and her blood had chilled at the other woman's words. Tears burned at the back of her eyes. She knew that her life was riding on the next few moments. She literally had the world to gain and nothing to lose. Beyond the fear, and the horror there was something more powerful, anger. It was boiling in the pit of her stomach. Every instinct in her, every basic animalistic part of her, and every cell of her scared body screamed out, frothed at the mouth for, and demanded revenge. "You're cocky."

Gillian shrugged, "I'm just that good."

Sara felt her adrenaline pumping, her heart pounding, she hadn't felt this way in years. "I figured you out; you don't think Sofia, Catherine and the rest would?"

Gillian moved the gun up and down, following the line of Sara's body and followed the gun with her eyes. Eyes, almost as black as the night now, flickered and Sara felt filthy from their touch. "Oh, that's right you're still a crack CSI after all these years?"

A little glimmer of pride had Sara jutting her chin out, "Better than you could ever be."

Gillian laughed, "And yet I'm still the one with the gun."

They both looked up as the echoing blast of a siren became audible, growing closer to them every second. Sara smiled even as Gillian raised the gun to chest level again. "And I'm the one wearing the wire that sent your entire rant back to CSI."

Author's Note: There you have it. Some scenes and quotes, are taken directly from Season One's _Blood Drops. _Yes, Gillian Rayne, or more properly Jill Overton, is a sick, twisted person.


	37. Chapter XXXVI: Et Tu?

_Chapter XXXVI_

_Et Tu?_

Had she truly been so foolish? Wooed by theatrics and pomp, by sly words and steamy rendezvous in the back of department-issued vehicles?

She had; she had happily danced and skipped along to the tune that her personal Pied Piper had played for her. Fawn Drex sat, hands frozen over the keys. She heard the words, heard them as clear as a bell. She heard the words, and her stomach turned sourly. Common sense, her training, came back to her slowly.

With the boy's outraged voices, she had linked the audio so they too could hear the confession, buzzing in her ears she mechanically began to report the incident, put out an A.P.B and call for back up to the location that the G.P.S gave her. The main frame of the LVPD recorded every word, gave it a time stamp, and set it to a unique file folder for later use. Her hands shook as she called the dispatcher. She didn't call officer down, because she didn't have visual confirmation. She did impress upon the dispatcher the severity of the situation and all available units were being called for. It was too late for Con and Renee, and far, far too late for Gillian, but maybe they could still save Sara Sidle.

* * *

Though they both had hotel rooms, Nick and Greg had ended up at Warrick's house. It was a messy mix of bachelor and father of three that suited the man. Greg paced, jerky motions that crossed the small living room back and forth, again and again. Nick was sitting, though just as upset. The words kept coming and they knew Sara was in danger. Warrick had tried to get a hold of Catherine and Sofia but neither woman had answered her phone. Greg stopped mid-stride when Gillian announced her desire to kill Sara. He looked from Warrick's face to Nick's and back again.

"We're not going to sit and watch that bitch screw Sara again, are we? Stand by while she murders another one of our friends?"

Warrick stood stock still for a moment and picked up the keys and the holstered service weapon he'd placed on the coffee table. "No."

* * *

They flew down the dark road, the blur becoming closer, more distinct. Catherine felt her heart pounding in her chest, hard and fast. Her jaw was clenched and she could feel acidic bile crawling up her throat. Sweat slid down her back, icy, and slick liquid fear. She held her gun with a tight grip, but her fingers still shook. Her ears were filled with the blare of the siren and her eyes were locked on whatever it was they were going towards. Her mind rushed ahead, trying to prepare itself for whatever she would see. How could she have been so blind for so long? It had been under her nose the entire time. She had once prided herself on her ability to read people, to make judgments. She was a trained investigator and a mother for God's sake! Yet, all of her so-called skills had failed her again and again. Eddie, Mike, and now Gillian: did she look for things that just weren't there? Could she not tell a good person, like Sara, from a bad? God, she didn't know. She did know, however, that she hated being made into a fool and Gillian Rayne had done just that. Now, if they weren't too late, she would be able to begin to right a few wrongs.

* * *

There wasn't enough time. She had been a step too slow, again, and now Sara was paying for it, again. Tipps and Montoya were also there, maybe hurt. God, they could be _dead_. As they got closer, she could see the rubber on the road and followed with her eyes. The car had gone off the road and into the ditch. Oh Jesus.

She could see two people standing, dimly illuminated by the lights. She began to slow down and pull to the side and wished that she hadn't given themselves away with the lights and sirens. She threw the car into park and wrenched the door open, her gun in hand. The embankment was steep and she could barely see because the desert night seemed to swallow up the headlights. Beside her a flash light beam pierced the dark, Catherine had remembered to bring her mag-lite.

"Sara!"

Between the light and her bellow, they'd given away their position. In Sofia's book that was a good thing, because as Gillian turned the gun towards them, she momentarily took Sara out of the bullet's deadly path.

* * *

Her name, in a yell, raspy and familiar, it was a sound that had echoed in her dreams time and time again. No, God no. Sofia was there, in danger. She didn't know, couldn't know, how twisted Gillian really was. She had killed, enjoyed it, and wanted more bodies to her name. She watched Gillian swing around, moving the gun away from her, and towards the light and sound of the oncoming figures. She was pointing the gun at Sofia.

Conscious choice is a funny thing. Sometimes time slowed down, allowing you a split second to fun through every possible choice and option. You could use or discard, make an informed decision. Sometimes you just snapped and chose the easiest route, or fulfilled a long held desire. There were other times, however, when the choice was made before one realized there was even an event to react to. She had experienced this particular sensation twice in her life. Once, she had been a kid and out on a school nature hike in the Tamales Bay Nature Reserve. They had been skirting around a steep hill that turned into a plunging cliff that dropped into the Pacific. One boy - she couldn't even remember his name now - had lost his footing. Before anyone had even raised a verbal alarm, she had literally jumped off the trail. She had slid, baseball style, down the hill and had caught the tumbling boy and had used the friction of her skin against the leaves and soil and a quick grab onto a sapling to stop them both a few scant feet before the wooded hill gave way to sheer cliff face.

The second time had been several years later. She had been with Jim Brass, going for a suspect and when they went into the sleazy apartment, she had followed, her own gun drawn. Jim had come down on her hard, especially since she had been the one to find him. She never remembered thinking about either of those potentially deadly decisions, or even moving to start. The realization that she was in the middle of an act of incredible bravery, or sheer stupidity, had come when the sequence of events and actions had gone too far to stop.

Sara Sidle would never remember making the decision or beginning to move. Later, much later, she would rationalize that the image of another person she loved about to be killed by the hands of Gillian Rayne was what galvanized her into acting, but she would never truly know. Between one rapid heartbeat and the next, she began to move. With her own name, falling from Sofia's lips, ringing in her ears, she lunged forward, ready to stop Gillian any way she could.

The gunshot pierced the night with a catastrophic blast, the white of the muzzle flash blinded the immediate viewers, and the acrid smoke filled the crisp air.

"SARA! NO!"

Author's Note: Personal experience there, not the holding people at gun point part, mind you.. I think pretty much everyone has had one of those doing something either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid without even thinking about it moments. I hate hiking.


	38. Chapter XXXVII: Desperation

_Chapter XXXVII_

_Desperation_

A thousand exercise-yard brawls, weaponless defense classes, dodging drunken blows from her parents, nothing had ever been this important and nothing had prepared her for the surge of violence that swept through her. Scientifically, she could break down every single reaction in an orderly fashion. Adrenaline allowed her a slight edge in speed and delayed her brain's reaction to pain. Endorphins clouded her higher brain functions and the most basic of all animal instincts, fight versus flight and kill or be killed had taken over.

Sara caught the other woman high in the chest, knocking the still smoking gun away with her manacled hands. At the exact moment of impact, Gillian had gone from smirking arrogantly, to looking stunned. Her eyes had gone wide and her mouth had become a wide 'O' of surprise. Both women hit the ground, Sara on top, with a thud and a grunt. With her hands free, Gillian had a slight advantage of mobility, but Sara had the momentary upper hand. She clamored up to her knees and delivered an awkward, but highly effective, steel reinforced punch to Gillian's face. The stunned moment of shock and pain was over in an instant and they were moving. Gillian trying to buck her off, to roll, to take control of the situation. No matter how many violent situations Sara had endured, Gillian still had several pounds on her, and her feet and hands were fully mobile. Despite her best efforts, she found herself lying on the ground, head being slammed into the pebble-strewn dust.

"Why the hell couldn't you just have _died_?"

The words were hot, and laced with venom. Gillian's breath came down on her and saliva flew. The woman had a tight grip on her hair and Sara felt the pain of her head meeting the hard ground again.

"If I only had a dollar for every time I heard that."

She scissored her still bound legs up and in a desperate move, tried to roll to the side. She pushed herself to her knees with her cuffed hands and kicked out at Gillian. She felt the solid impact of her feet on flesh and lashed out again. A hand caught one of her ankles and twisted it sharply. An elbow came down on her knee and Sara felt the intense, burning pain.

Above her Gillian laughed, "That's right bitch. Scream for me; beg me, just like _he_ did.

She let out a guttural scream and twisted her body hard. She used her weight to topple an off balance Gillian over. Moving quickly, despite the crippling pain in her leg, Sara lunged for the other woman, hands clenched and to the side ready to aim for the ribs.

There was a blur of sudden motion and gritty dirt hit her in the eyes and for a moment, she was blinded. Sara fought to clear them and her moment's hesitation gave Gillian the window of opportunity she'd needed to regain the upper hand. Her solid tackle to the midsection knocked Sara to her hands and knees. Her head drooped down and she fought to catch the breath that was coming out of her in hisses, gasps, and wheezes. Her side burned and even though the adrenaline was still pumping, the combination of blunt force trauma to her head and acute blood loss was dulling her body's natural chemical responses. She tried to push herself up but a boot caught her in the side and all her strength abandoned her with the whoosh of air that was forced from her lungs. The gun was lying a few feet away and she knew that if Gillian reached it, she was dead.

Summoning strength from some unknown depth, she pushed herself up. Balancing preciously because her feet and hands were still shackled together, she got to her feet. Gillian foolishly had turned her back and was looking for the gun. At the sounds of metal rattling she turned, but was just a moment too late. Sara was on her, hands up, chain between the cuffs tight. They went down, once again, to the desert floor, but this time, Sara didn't punch or scratch; she lunged at the other woman's most vulnerable point, her neck. Steel links pressed against the woman's skin, making red welts rise and skin blanch white from the pressure underneath the unyielding metal.

She leaned down, putting enough weight on the cuffs to block, but not fracture the windpipe. She looked down at Gillian, who was struggling, mouth wide open grunting silently, and leaned in,

"Who's screaming now, Bitch?"

It was almost intimate, their position was one of lovers. Gillian's fingers clawed at her neck, trying to get a finger between the metal and her flesh, trying to create a little space so she could breathe. Sara held the pressure down. If there was anything she knew intimately, from both sides of her life, it was handcuffs and how to use them.

She stared down into Gillian's night black eyes. "Five years. Five long years. You took _everything _from me. I lost _everything_ and _everyone_ I loved." She jerked the chain, giving Gillian a quick gulp of air and then held down again. "Because of you. Your brother was a _monster_ and you're _worse_." Her hands were steady and, though her heart was pounding in her chest, she was not afraid. "There isn't one fucking reason to leave you alive tonight. I should leave your fucking body to the vultures and the elements." Sara leaned in harder and could feel the woman jerking underneath her, in something that was dangerously close to death throws. "It's no more than you deserve."

* * *

The bullet ricocheted off the overturned car and sped off into the infinite night. Catherine pulled her gun and flashlight up. It was not a position that came naturally to her, but her grip on the gun, and its trigger was trained into her.

"GILLIAN!"

Just ahead of her, Sofia was going down the steep hill with an eerie grace; she barely needed the light at all. The closer they got, the more horrible the scene became. They, Sara and Gillian, were brawling, and Gillian was winning, through any means necessary. When Sara let out a strangled cry she saw Sofia jerk forward, trying to get there all the faster. They couldn't fire, Sara was too close to Gillian to make it a safe shot.

"SARA!"

Her own voice surprised her, full of fear and was that encouragement too? They, she and Sofia, were too slow and Gillian was so fast. A kick to the ribs, and since she could vividly remember the doctor's words, "_She was assaulted, again, a five inch long cut, of medium depth, cutting through all the layers of skin and scraping the top layer of muscle. Not to mention several puncture wounds to go with it." _Throwing dirt, pulling hair, kicking where she knew it would hurt, Gillian was fighting dirty, and somehow she just wasn't at all shocked.

What did shock her was seeing a figure come up and jump at the other woman, anger burning around her like a visible and fiery aura. When she realized what Sara was doing, she gasped. She was choking the other woman to death.

"SARA!"

The got closer and could hear the other woman's words, steady and ice cold, "_There isn't one fucking reason to leave you alive tonight. I should leave your fucking body to the vultures and the elements...It's no better than you deserve."_

Almost shoulder to shoulder, she and Sofia hit flat ground and started around the car, guns held out, ready for anything, yet so painfully raw and exposed to everything that was happening and could occur next.

Up close the scene was more horrible than even her nightmares could have imagined. Two people, people she had seen and talked to, were dead, limp, and hanging inside the torn and twisted wreck of the police car. Then there was the mass that was Sara and Gillian with Sara on top, holding the other woman down, choking the life out of her. It wasn't that Gillian was innocent, far from it. It was Sara she was truly worried about. She was afraid for her. She could see it in Sara's body language, and hear it in her voice; she was ready and willing to kill and for the first time, Catherine was truly afraid of Sara Sidle.


	39. Chapter XXXVIII: This Is Not Mercy

_Chapter XXXVIII_

_This is Not Mercy_

Sara heard them behind her, but Catherine and Sofia weren't a part of this. Not _this_. The other two women were good, innocent, they were crusaders and despite wading through the wreckage of death and murder day and night, year after year, they did not truly understand it. Not like she and Gillian did. This was not a place for badges and heroes; it was a place for the conscienceless and those who were truly hardened to murder.

She stared down into Gillian's night black eyes. "They're here, Gillian, but they're not here to save you. No one can save you now."

The woman still struggled but the movements were becoming more and more like final death throws every second. Sara stared down at the woman who had taken everything from her, who had stolen much, much more than five years of her life. She looked in Gillian Rayne's eyes and saw herself reflected in them, sitting above her, holding her down.

Sara turned her head ever so slightly and saw Sofia and Catherine, both with guns in their hands, silhouetted against the ethereal lights of the wrecked car. Both were still, but for their hands. Both women's hands were shaking.

She turned back to Gillian and leaned down a little harder. "I can kill you right now, you know it, I know it, and they know it." She watched the horrible realization, the realization that she was truly about to die, bubble up into Gillian's eyes. In a quick move, Sara rose up, jerking the chain away from Gillian's throat and putting it to her chin, holding her head at an angle.

"_This is not mercy_." Her voice shook with every word, but it grew stronger and she stared into Gillian's eyes. "You will look back on this night, this moment for the rest of your pain-ridden, and pathetically short life and damn me for not giving you over to the silent, peaceful bliss of _death_. Every time you're raped and sodomized. Every time you're beaten bloody. Every time you open your eyes and realize that you are nothing but an animal with numbers for a name, locked away in a filthy cage. Every time you have what's left of your tattered dignity ripped away from you. _You will remember me_. Your days are numbered, Gillian. You think you can survive in prison? You will never know what you did to me. What you took from me."

Rage boiled up in Sara again and she jerked the chain hard, knowing that it would hit Gillian and snap her head hard enough to cause pain and break skin open so she would bleed. "You will die, slowly and painfully, just a little more every day. It's the worst kind of torture. You will die alone, forgotten and rotting in a puddle of your own waste and the only one who will remember you will be the janitor who had to scoop you up. You will be vaguely remembered in death as you were in life, a nameless number in a shared grave. Just like your bastard twin brother. This isn't mercy, you bitch, it's exactly what you fucking deserve. Every day, I'm going to know that you're in the worst kind of fucking purgatory possible and I'm going to _smile_ because_ I_ am the one that is to condemn _you_ to your fate. That's not irony, Junior, that's justice."

She could hear the warbling siren of the ruined patrol car and the sounds of the night around her. She could feel Gillian's racing heart beneath her. She could feel the burning stares of Sofia and Catherine on her. Above her, the stars glimmered down. Inside her, there was a feeling, one Sara couldn't quite describe. Peace, the burning pain of guilt slowly dissipated and for the first time in so many long years, she felt satisfied. This was vindication; this was justice.

Sara let the chain off Gillian's throat and tried to stand.

Though Gillian was wheezing, coughing, choking on her own rage, she forced out one single word, "Coward."

Weak and woozy, she only succeeded in standing up when two strong arms helped her. She looked down at Gillian, "Maybe I am, but I'd rather be a coward than a murderer. I'll never be a murdererNot for revenge, or anything, not for me or for Gil. I'll never be _you_."

* * *

Sara's knees buckled and she all but collapsed as Sofia eased her away from Gillian's prone form. The dark haired murderess was still fighting for breath. Sara was shaking in her arms. Sofia could feel the frighteningly fast heartbeat of the other woman's heart beating against hers. Going on pure instinct, she turned Sara around in her arms and let the woman rest her head against her shoulder. Sofia's arms tightened around the woman when she felt the silent tears begin to soak her shirt. She lifted Sara's chin, so she could see the other woman. Tears spilled down the other woman's pale and battered face. Tracing clean lines through the dust and blood. Sara's eyes, big and brown, were glassy and haunted. Sara had won, they had caught Gillian with her pants down and there was no way around it, but there was a price. Her physical defeat of Gillian Rayne had left her body bleeding and her soul ripped ragged. Sara was scraped out, utterly spent and all Sofia wanted to do was protect her. 

It was this instinct to protect her that had her pivoting, pulling Sara close, and turning her away. Putting herself between Sara and Gillian when Catherine shouted. For all of the excitement and worry, and Sara's victory, they hadn't secured the gun. It was a rookie mistake, stupidity and when the quiet of the desert was shattered by yet another gunshot, Sofia squeezed her eyes shut and prepared herself for the burning pain of hot lead entering her body. It never came.

The borderline inhuman shriek made her turn and take the scene in. She and Sara saw a portrait painted in dark inky tones of the night and the furious splash of red blood.

Catherine Willows stood above Gillian Rayne, still-smoking gun in hand, with an unreadable expression on her face. On the ground, in the fetal position was Gillian, one whole left hand clutching the twisted mess of flesh, blood, and bone that had been her right hand. Catherine, gun still trained on the murderous CSI, walked over, and kicked the gun towards Sofia with the toe of her highly polished boot. There was nothing but contempt in the woman's ice blue eyes as she glared down at Gillian. "I _trusted_ you."

Gillian's only answered was a choked gasp for air.

Sofia stepped back from Sara and took the woman's wrists. She moved her hand around and pulled out her own handcuffs and the keys that would unlock any set of standard issue cuffs. "I've waited a long time to do this." She unlocked the cuffs and then went to one knee and unlocked the manacles. She let the bindings dangle from her left hand and smiled. She ran a thumb across the red and purple welts on Sara's now bare wrists. Still shaking Sara gave her a small smile. It was an expression that had never graced the brunette's lovely face enough. Sofia could see the gap between Sara's teeth and found herself smiling too. Sofia pushed one stubborn curl out of Sara's face and pulled her around, back to front again, taking most of the slight woman's weight onto herself. She tossed the cuffs and manacles to Catherine and felt more than saw Sara wince at the chaotic clanking of metal when it hit the ground. She held Sara against her for two reasons, because the woman probably couldn't stand under her own power, and she wouldn't have let her go even if she could.

"I've waited five long years for this: Gillian Rayne, you're under arrest for the murder of Gilbert Grissom." She let that settle for a moment and then looked over her own shoulder, back at the car and the two people who had been killed so needlessly. "The murder of Detective Conner Tipps and Officer Renee Montoya, the attempted murder of Sara Sidle, obstruction of justice, conspiracy, and whatever else our DA sees fit to charge you with." Sofia felt elated with each word. She had recited the Miranda Rights a million times to a million different people, this time was different. This time, it was personal.

Sara and Sofia watched Catherine put the cuffs on the other woman in a gruff, rough manner, being especially callous with the Gillian's injured right hand.

Sirens cut into the night; back up was on its way. It was too late to do anything but take statements and start the clean up. However, Sofia smiled, Sara's ordeal was finally over. They could all rest now, knowing that Gilbert Grissom's real murderer was finally going to be brought to justice and that Sara would be coming home.

Author's Note: Admit it, you were a little worried there for a minuite.


	40. Chapter XXXIX: Full Circle

_Chapter XXXIX_

_Full Circle_

For those who had been with the LVPD long enough, it was a grim, hideously familiar scene. The coroner zipped up two of their own in body bags while a trusted colleague was shoved into the back of a patrol car. The news of Sara Sidle's innocence, and Gillian Rayne's guilt, spread like wild fire. Some were shocked, others pleased; all were outraged. They had all been duped and that did not sit well with Vegas's finest. Some knew more than others, of course. Those in the know used their knowledge to their advantage.

Conrad Ecklie, for one, was trying to make a speedy escape as the sun rose over Las Vegas. Unfortunately, for the Lab Director, Jim Brass was also in the know. Police Captains retired with an innumerable amount of favors owed to them. So when the sweating, balding bureaucrat got to his car, parked in the LVPD garage, it was surrounded by a dozen of none-too-happy officers of the Las Vegas Police Department and Clark County Sheriff's Office. Friends of Renee Montoya and Conner Tipps. A solid blue wall that pinned the man in.

Sergeant Mark Barnaby, Montoya's immediate supervisor, godfather to her child, took grim joy in arresting Conrad Ecklie. He ratcheted the cuffs just a hair too tight and jerked them so Ecklie had to go to his tiptoes to keep his shoulders in joint. Between the man's ranting, raving and demands to be let gone, Barnaby leaned in and whispered something that made the dirty lab director go still and lose bladder control.

* * *

"She isn't allowed visitors." The nurse's crisp tone only served to make Fawn Drex madder. 

"Look, Lady, I'm LVPD and I'm here to process her. She's a murderer and I'm here to get the evidence to put her in jail."

RN Susan Popivelli scowled, "I don't care what she's done, she is my patient."

Drex narrowed her eyes and gripped her kit until her knuckles were white and a vein had popped out in straining relief on her arm. "She's a _cop killer_."

As Susan's son worked the traffic division, the matronly woman stepped aside with an unreadable look on her face. "Exam Three, there are guards."

The CSI turned on her heel and stalked down the hall and Susan made a mental note to make rounds again in ten minutes, because she was sure that Miss Rayne would need further medical attention. The ER was full of cops and CSIs this morning and she couldn't wait to turn on the news in the lounge and find out why.

Fawn found Exam Three quickly. As two burly Sheriff's Deputies were standing guard outside of the curtained room, it wasn't hard to locate. She flashed her ID and they gave her a quick once over.

She felt her pulse jump a few points. "Trust me, I'm not here to _help_ her."

She shouldered around them and snapped the curtain open to reveal the woman she'd shared her bed with not forty-eight hours earlier. The raven-haired woman was handcuffed to the bed rails. Her face was clean but swollen and raw; Sidle had obviously gotten a few licks in and Fawn applauded her for it.

Gillian winged up the brow over the eye that wasn't swollen shut. "Well, well, well, hello, Lover."

Fawn slammed her kit onto the rolling table. "_You used me._"

Gillian's swollen face pulled tight into a leering smile that made her already split lip spill a drop of blood. "And you _loved _every minute of it."

Gillian's next words were lost in a strangled scream because Fawn had jabbed the sharp corner of her elbow into the broken and bandaged hand that had been lying on the side of the bed. "You're pathetic, Jilly, and I won't rest until you're behind bars for good." Though tears were coming out of her eyes and she was physically shaking from the pain that was radiating from her shattered hand, Gillian managed to wheeze out a weak and wobbling "Bitch."

A vicious and predatory smile cut across Fawn's face. "You haven't seen anything yet." She looked over her shoulder at the two uniformed deputies who had managed to find the same spot somewhere down the hall incredibly fascinating and then back at Gillian. "This is only the first circle of your Hell, and you get to see them all."

* * *

Much like the rest of the Desert Palm ER Staff, Doctor April Sweeny wondered what had exactly happened while most of Vegas had been sleeping. Cops, CSIs, even the Sheriff and Mayor, had come into the Exam and Observation room that Sara Sidle, a convict of some sort, had been assigned. The woman herself was in pitiful shape. The gash on the woman's side had been re-stitched, again, and was courting infection. That was not to mention all the new injuries she had managed to acquire. Sara Sidle was a walking bruise and was, according to her blood pressure, in a great amount of pain. The orange jumpsuit clad woman hadn't uttered a word about pain killers. Everyone else who insisted on barging in and out of the examination room had mentioned everything from aspirin to morphine, but Sara Sidle was suspiciously quiet. She had only caught bits and pieces of what had transpired, and knew that there was a CSI in another room under guard. The situation was strange, to say the least. She had the chest x-ray films, three broken ribs, only one of them fresh, with her, but she paused at the curtained door. 

The lights were dim and there was only one woman, for a change, in the room with Miss Sidle.

"I have to go back, Sofia. That's just how it works. You know that, I know that, Catherine knows that. I have to be worked through the system."

The blonde, a Police Lieutenant of some kind, paced by the side of the bed like a caged show animal before the show.

"You think I don't know that? It could take _weeks_, though, Sara."

The bed ridden brunette only shrugged, "Maybe, but I doubt it. Lexi is already putting in injunctions and motions, calling in favors."

The blonde, Sofia, continued her pacing. Five quick steps to the right, turned five steps to the left, turned and repeated. "I know, but damn it, I promised you I would get you out of that hell hole, not send you back."

An IV bearing hand shot out from the bed and stopped the other woman. "It's okay."

Sofia smiled down at their hands and moved her fingers to encase Sara's. "No, it's not okay, it never was, Sara." The two women looked at each other for a moment, and Sofia stepped closer, until her legs were pressed against the side of the hospital bed. "The last time we put our trust in the _system_, you ended up spending five years in _jail_. Sara's eyes went dark and Sofia could see a storm of conflict in them. She leaned over and ran her fingers over Sara's smooth cheek, avoiding the swollen parts of her abused face. "I would happily take a bullet if I knew it was going to keep you out of that place." Sara opened her mouth to reply, but her words, if she had scraped any together, were swallowed by Sofia's slow, sweet kiss. Unencumbered this time, Sara slid her shaking fingers into Sofia's silky blonde hair and for one moment, both women found peace together.

* * *

The Broken Leg Cafe, just across the road from the hospital was a hot spot for the staff and for those who spent enough time around the hospital to be familiar with it. It was here that Warrick Brown, Nick Stokes, Greg Sanders, and Catherine Willows met. Nick frowned at his former supervisor. She was pale and washed out, the dark circles of fatigue around her blue eyes were more pronounced than he'd ever seen them. In short, the usually crisp and well-presented Catherine looked like hell. 

She gave them all a weak smile, "I used the hospital as an excuse to duck IA for the moment."

The three men nodded, and she chuckled a bit, "It's been a hell of a night." She filled in the gaps, took them through the evening in slow, methodical steps. She explained it as she would any crime and crime scene. Catherine picked unenthusiastically at her food and spoke until she was out of words. She looked at each of the faces around her. Even after all the years, they were still her team, her friends, _her guys_.

"Sofia is still with her. She's shaken up pretty bad, lost some blood, but she's going to be okay, as okay as she can be after all this." Catherine heaved a sigh, "We let them down, guys. We let Sara down; we let Gil down. We let ourselves down."

Defeat was a bitter, heady mix of should and could-haves and for a moment, they all partook of the thick brew.

Greg was the first to speak again. "Think she'll ever forgive us?" No one had an answer.

Author's Note: I never imagined Fawn would get as much attention or the reaction she did. I still think that Greg's my favorite supporting charecter in this story, though.


	41. Chapter XL: A Long Overdue Visit

_Chapter XL_

_A Long Overdue Visit_

The toast was drier than dust and the eggs were runny and tasteless. She couldn't bring herself to eat the plate full of food in front of her. This was her last meal on the inside. It had been four whirlwind days since the night in the desert. Lexi, Catherine and Sofia had moved heaven and earth to push the paper work though. They had tapped into the media feeding frenzy and the great amount of guilt that was choking the department and the city at large to cut through the copious amounts red tape. She was leaving at noon with a full pardon and a clean record. If only it were that easy. Her name was all the record she needed. She was a marked woman now. Wherever she went, people would whisper and wonder. "That trashy Sidle family" "The girl whose mother killed her father" "The workaholic" "The woman who killed her boss" "The woman who was framed" She could never be just Sara. No, there was always some nasty little epithet thrown in. Some nasty story to be shared behind a raised hand. She jabbed at the eggs extra hard with her fork.

"Sara, those eggs stopped being a threat when they were scrambled."

Sara looked up to see Ellie Brass sitting across from her. How long the woman had been there she didn't know. She had been lost in deep, swirling thoughts ever since her return to the prison. Dark, tentacled musings that wrapped around her, bogged her down, and pulled her deeper into the blackest pits of her mind. The monsterous parts that not even the brightest lights, or the happiest thoughts, could or even wanted to penetrate. The girl - the woman, somehow she would always think of Ellie as Jim's out of control daughter - was smiling at her. Her light brown hair was pulled away from her face and bundled onto her head so spikes shot out. Dark brown eyes held a look that, genetic or not, she had inherited from her father. Ellie propped her elbows on the table and put her face that had slimmed down and lost the roundness of youth in her palms.

"Why so glum, you're getting sprung today."

Sara only shrugged and made designs in the sickly yellow of the eggs. "Thinking, that's all."

The news of Sara's fate had spread through the prison like wild fire. Wild stories, some embellished, some not, had been the talk of the blocks since Sara's return. The actual truth, in Ellie's opinion, was worse than any of the lies, and she had said so. Sara hadn't asked how Ellie had come to know the exact details of the story, but the woman had a crystal clear and laser-honed knowledge of the events that she hadn't even related to Melissa fully. There was only one way Ellie knew; she was just waiting for the younger woman to say it. It didn't take long.

"You told him." Him meaning her father, Jim Brass. Sara only shrugged the shoulder that wasn't on the side that screamed like fire from the abuse it had taken over the past week or so. Yes, she had told Jim, it had been an impulse, and lately her impulse control had gone all to hell. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to ignore the echoing memory of Gillian's choking.

"And?"

There was a beat of silence, then Ellie sighed a little, "Thank you." She waited another beat, "For everything."

With that, the woman rose, "When you hit the bricks, start walking and don't turn back 'till you're way the hell out of this God-forsaken state."

Sara watched Ellie's stern, solemn face change to a goofy grin and she pranced, actually pranced, over to another table to talk about the latest brawl in the rec room. Some people she would never, ever understand.

She wanted to spend the rest of her dwindling breakfast time alone, but fate was against her and one of the last people she wanted to see, came and sat across from her. Time had been good to Tina Collins. You couldn't say the woman wasn't well turned out, physically. It was her soul that worried Sara. She had been scarred in childhood, and had, in her teen years, lashed out in anger and twisted maternal instinct. She had let the man, the boy really, who'd slaughtered her family into the house. Had given the big bad wolf the sheep, happy to see them go to slaughter. She had, inadvertently, started the tumbling, twisted, madness that had gotten Sara here. Or maybe it had been her sexually abusive father, or his sexually abusive father, or any number of people. The buck had to stop somewhere. Sara gritted her teeth again and concentrated on a spot of wall right above Tina's left shoulder. It should stop with Gillian Rayne, or Jill Overton. She and she alone had been responsible for her own actions. She would stand trial and be found guilty. Then again, Sara had stood trial and had been found guilty as well, hadn't she? She couldn't, in all honesty, look at Tina and not see the beginning of her own demise. Flashes of dark hair, pale skin, and silver-steel handcuffs flashed in her mind. She blinked and tried to clear the nightmare images of her own violent actions from her head. Tina's words were drowned out by her own thoughts. She could see the other woman speaking and smiling and she even reached over and tried to touch Sara's hand. She jerked away, then relaxed and faked a smile as she patted Tina's hand. "You take care of yourself, kid."

Sara stood on shaky legs and made her way to the front to dump her tray. She had to get away, and while the guard walked her back to her cell, to collect her things, she shivered and tried to collect herself.

* * *

Five years of her life fit in a small knapsack. Lexi had sent clothes, jeans and a tee shirt with new underwear, socks and shoes. None of them was hers; she had donated all of her possessions when she was convicted. The destitute of Vegas had needed them more than she. The new clothes were stiff and despite her best guesstimates, a size or two too big. She sat on her bunk, her sanctuary for the last few years, and stared at the shoebox that was crammed full of letters to Sofia. Nervous, her fingers, raked across the worn cardboard surface. Should she leave them? Throw them away? Send them? She honestly didn't know anymore. 

"I've really enjoyed working with you, Sara."

Sara's head snapped up. The last time she'd heard those words, Melissa Winters had been sure she would die on the operating table. The wheel chair bound ex-attorney and her best friend came into her cell and waved the guard away. It never ceased to amaze Sara just how much power Melissa wielded inside the walls of the prison. Grissom would only smile and say knowledge was power. Grissom, though, was dead, just as dead as he had been five years ago. She had spent five years in jail for a murder she did not commit, had gone to the death chamber, and somehow she still felt like she hadn't paid enough penance. She was alive while he was not, that was something that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Melissa wheeled closer. "Stop that."

Sara looked up again, "Stop what?"

The blonde woman rolled her eyes, "Stop making a martyr out of yourself."

When Sara didn't meet her eyes, she felt her head being jerked up and around by the chin. She winced a little, but Melissa had her attention. "You. Are. Free. You have one foot out that gate and I will not have you wasting away on the outside, when you've beaten every fucking odd to overcome. You grabbed your freedom and fought for it. You fought for your own _justice_, Sara." She stared her down, blue eyes burning into Sara's brown. "You paid for a crime you didn't even commit in blood, sweat, tears, and fucking heart break." Melissa didn't move. "They are going to offer you money, lots of it. _Do not settle_. You hear me? You do not rest until you've got two and a half million per year, minimum, to go along with that full pardon and the record you can _eat_ off of. You take that money and that chance and you go back and _get back you life_. Don't live for Gil Grissom, live for Sara Sidle."

In less time than it took to blink, Melissa pulled her into a bruising kiss that spoke of happiness, pent up passion and something more than friendship. When she broke it off, and pushed a curl off of Sara's forehead, Melissa only smiled. She backed up and as she was rolling out of the room, she paused and looked back.

"Give her the letters, oh and Sara?" She smiled one more time, "I never want to hear from you again, ever." With that, Sara was alone, and ready to pick up what was left of her existence on the outside of The Nevada Women's Correctional Facility as best she could.

* * *

Standing there, on the carpet, in the corridor that would lead to the exit, which would lead to freedom, Sara was terrified. She didn't quite understand that. No more bars, no more handcuffs, no more orange jumpsuits, no more attacks, no more literally watching her ass in the shower. Shouldn't she be thrilled? Her stomach was grinding and there was a painful burn under her breastbone. It was her ulcer throwing a fit. It was only another complaint in an army of aches and pains that wracked her body. She was jittery, almost shaking. She was waiting for someone to come and drag her back. To tell her that everything had been a mistake. That she was still on death row, and still guilty. She was waiting to wake up from the fantastic dream world she had fallen into. She was Alice, waiting for the Queen to bellow "Off with her head!" 

None of those happened. A bored looking guard stood there, scratching at his over-starched collar and a fly buzzed on the wall, but that was it. The clock ticked and she waited, it seemed like an eternity until something happened.

That something was Warden Caleb Rhett, the fucking bastard, to come through the door with a stack of papers in his hand. He put them down on the small table that made up the entirety of the hall's furniture. He didn't look at her directly but shoved a ball point pen in her direction. "Sign 'em."

Freedom was only a few strokes of the pen away. How simple, how incredibly simple. To wash away five years of torment, pain, and imprisonment, all she had to do was loop her name onto a page. Why, she wondered, after seeing the technology that made the outside run so quickly and efficiently, was the prison sill on paper? Budget restraints, she mused, or was Rhett too stupid to know how to use the newer equipment? Did it matter? She signed her name with a quick hand and let the pen clatter to the table. She was unbound now, and despite the difference in their sizes and his gun, she felt like the one in power. She could see him sweating, beads of sweat falling from his head, coursing down his neck and soaking his cheap blue oxford shirt. He was scared shitless of her. Of what she knew, of what she could do to him. Good. Between the infirmary stay and her lawyer all but living in his office, Rhett hadn't been able to touch her. The publicity of her death so quickly after her exoneration would be to great a coincidence for the city, state, prison and Rhett to pass off.

He grunted and scooped up the papers, "Let's go, Sidle."

He walked about three steps in front of her, and didn't look back until they'd reached the final door. The door that would lead to the outside, to her freedom. She had never thought she would see this door, never dreamed of it, now here she was. It was almost anti climatic. He pushed open the old steel door. The hinges protested and squeaked and Sara had to shield her eyes from the bright sun. Lexi had forgotten sunglasses, and frankly so had she. Sunglasses were a fantastic commodity, a pleasure item reserved for only the guards and the visitors, not the prisoners. She could see them, past the chain link fence, lined up like honor guards. Catherine Willows, Warrick Brown, Nick Stokes, Greg Sanders, and the new kid she'd never met, Fawn Drex.

Rhett let out something akin to a growl, "Your friends are here." Three black SUVs were sitting all in a row; they were here, all right. Sara turned, and for the first time in a very long time, she looked Rhett strait in the eyes, "Oh, they're here, but not for me." She let that hang and watched the realization dawn. "They're not even here for you. They've got a statement, a warrant and shovels. They're here for Julia Eastman and Kate Armstrong."

The words fell, like a death sentence from her lips. She watched Caleb Rhett go ashen pale and she smiled as she began to walk away. She could hear the man gasping and wheezing behind her. Part of her hoped he keeled over from a debilitating heart attack, and the other part hoped he was strong and healthy. He would have _several_ _long years_ to think about all of his many, many crimes. She hoped he enjoyed his time on the wrong side of the bars just as much as she had enjoyed hers. Maybe he and Ecklie could be cellmates, or better yet, block mates that were used as bitches by the same hard ass prison gang. It was no more than either man deserved.

Catherine raised a hand in acknowledgment as she passed, so did the boys. A salute, a welcome back, an apology, a promise. Things would never be the same between them. There weren't enough sorries in the world, but they had some kind of a chance. A chance to move towards getting back to some form of normal. Sara only had to reach out and take it. She wasn't even sure if she _wanted_ it, though. Not now, not yet, maybe never.

A taxi was waiting for her, as she had requested. She was a few years late, but it was better late then never. She had one more person to see, one more long overdue trip to make.

* * *

The Nevada sun was an intense fire ball sitting low in the Western sky. It scorched the sky, tinting the blue with red, orange and all the colors of the wind, or that was how the song went, at least. The grass beneath her knees was green, closely cut and well tended. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen grass, but that was hardly the point. 

She sat in front of Gil Grissom's grave, and that was the point. "Hey Griss." She found herself tracing the grooves that made up his name, chiseled in white marble. "It's been a long time."

Five years to be exact, and even after all this time, she still wasn't sure what to say.

"I would have been here sooner, but was a little tied up." She couldn't even work up the energy to laugh at her own pathetic joke. She sat there for a minute, arms clasped around her knees, talking to the grave of the man she loved, had loved. Maybe still loved, she didn't know. The wind whistled through the tombstones, a lonely sound, and the crickets, somewhere, were chirping. She bet he would know exactly what kind of cricket it was too. She sighed, "They found the woman who really killed you. It was Gillian Rayne, she was one of Catherine's CSIs... but I guess you already knew that, didn't you? What you probably didn't know was that her real name is Jill Overton." She sighed and plucked at the bright green blades of grass. "You probably don't remember the Collins case, but she blamed us for her brother, Jesse Overton, being put in jail and then killed. Plotted, schemed, and played us all for fools. Killed you, framed me, played Catherine like a fiddle. It was bad."

She tilted her head back and looked up at the sky that had half surrendered to twilight. "Ecklie helped, but that doesn't surprise me a bit. I bet you'd be surprised, but you always looked for the good in people, didn't you? I always like that about you." She fell to silence again, not quite sure how to go on.

Sara ran her hands through her hair and sighed. "I miss you. Sounds funny, huh? You've been gone for five years, but I've never had time to miss you, to really even acknowledge that you were really gone. Now here I am in the world again and I don't have a clue about what I'm going to do with myself. I'm free now. To do what, I don't know. No Crime Lab in the world will take me on; no University will give me a doctorate. You know that was always a silly little dream of mine, Doctors Grissom and Sidle. Fat chance of that happening now, though. Maybe it's time to take that vacation you were always talking about. Go see the Rain Forest, or something."

Weary now, she stood up; she just didn't know what to say. Gil wasn't here anyway, she knew that for sure. His legacy, a proud one, was with the people he had touched. He lived on in Nicky, Catherine, Warrick, Greg and maybe even a little bit in her. For a man who had been more comfortable with corpses or insects, he had certainly touched countless lives.

I guess this is goodbye." She took her hands out of her pockets, then wrung them together, then put them back in her pockets, only to take them out again. She finally rested both palms on top of his tombstone.

"A part of me will always love you, Gil." She felt tears burning at the back of her eyes and didn't bother holding them back. She ran her fingers over the smooth, cold stone and sighed. "Tell Baby, Mommy says hi for me, okay." She choked back a quiet little sob and remembered yet another "worst night of her life".

_March 31, 2007_

_The pain burned in her, sharp and intense. Something was wrong. Internal bleeding, ruptured spleen, something. She reached a shaking hand out, trying to get the guard to see her. The women had abandoned her in the wet, slick shower in a puddle of her own blood. No one was around and she couldn't understand why. Where were the guards? Where was everybody? The blackness took her, not to a place without pain, but to a place where pain was all there was. She wanted it to end. She cried out to any God that could hear; she wanted it to end. _

_In and out, she could hear only buzzes and felt empty, scraped raw on the inside. She was alive, to her great disappointment, and in pain. There was always pain. She forced an eye open and realized she was no longer in the shower, a blessing. She was in the infirmary, a place she was already becoming overly familiar with. There were voices, clearer now and machines. Then, when she was at her most lucid, at her most aware, she heard it. _

"_Misscarriage. Did she even know she was pregnant?"_

"_We're going to need another bag of blood here, she's losing a lot."_

"_Call the Warden; we may need the coroner if this doesn't stop."_

"_It's a damn shame."_

"_You think the father was the guy she murdered?"_

_It was at that moment, she had realized that justice was a cruel, cruel joke. Her spirit was wounded, and though she had survived, her child, a child she had never even realized she'd been carrying, had died and had taken all hope with it. _

Gillian Rayne, Jill Overton, whoever the hell she was, had taken much more than five years from her. It was just as Sara had said, she would never, could never understand how much she had taken. She had killed not only Gilbert Grissom, but also his entire line. She had killed the man she'd loved and the child that she had learned of, loved and lost all in a single bloody moment. She was nothing but scarred over flesh, but the deepest, most painful wounds, didn't scar, not on the outside, at least.

She turned to leave, to go somewhere, anywhere that wasn't this place, this glorified and emptied monument to death, and saw her. Sofia stood on the path, setting sun behind her. Sara's white knight, just like the storybooks all promised. Hair dancing in the breeze, a small smile on her face. She was beautiful, much more than Sara deserved.

She watched Sofia come closer; the walk had just as much strut in it as it ever had. Even at forty, the new thirty, Sofia Curtis was a bad ass and she knew it.

She offered a small smile, "I thought I would find you here."

Sara nodded and looked back at the tombstone. It was a simple affair, really. There was no great marble statue of an angel or an obelisk. His name, the date of his birth and death, dates that weren't nearly far enough apart, and a quote. It was something that suited Grissom down to the bone, he had even uttered it himself. Catherine, for it had to have been Catherine who chose the quote, had chosen well.

_"I don't hold onto things. I accept the evolution of change. We live, we die, we replenish the earth."_

"It has never seemed real until now. Him being gone, I mean." Sara shifted her gaze from the grave to Sofia. From the past to the present, and maybe even the future. " There was that night and then I was too busy trying to prove my innocence to even shed a tear. Now, it's not even an ache. He's a bittersweet memory, no more, no less. A friend, a lover, the whole thing was a mistake on both of our parts. I know that now, I think I knew that then." She shrugged and groped for something else, something that would make everything make sense, but she had nothing.

Sofia seemed to understand. "He was a good man, a good friend, and now he can finally be at peace." They stood quietly for a moment, not speaking and not touching.

After the silence began to stretch into something less then comfortable, Sara spoke again.

"I lied to you."

Sofia blinked and then went stiff, as if she was preparing herself for some great blow. Sara smiled and put her hand into the bag, summoning up the last bit of courage she had. "I wrote back." She pulled out the worn down box, "You kept me sane. Your letters were the one thing keeping me grounded. The knowledge that someone actually believed in me...remembered me."

She could see tears blurring Sofia's blue eyes and the other woman stepped closer.

"Oh. Oh, Sara."

Had she used the rest of her courage? Oh no, because this was harder and took more than the piddly amount of courage she'd used in spurts up to now. Though every fiber of her being protested, she stepped back, away from Sofia's embrace.

"Please don't touch me."

She could see the pain boil up in Sofia's eyes. She held out the box, "I hate to sound cliché, but it's not you. It's me." She wanted to drop everything and go to Sofia's arms. She wanted to be safe, protected, and loved, but Melissa's words rang in her ears.

"Listen to me, I sound so jaded. I think I have a right to be though. I lost more than five years, I lost huge pieces of myself. Pieces I'll never find again. I have to learn how to just be Sara again. Not CSI Sidle, or Prisoner Sidle, just Sara. I have to find _her_ and I have to do it alone."

Sofia didn't cry or argue, or even comment. She only nodded at first and that warm understanding cut into Sara deeper than any knife.

Sofia smiled at her. "I'll be here when you're ready." Her words were soft, loving. Sara almost fell to her knees. Where was this coming from? How could anyone have so much patience, so much mercy? She had lived without both for so long that seeing it in such abundance, from a single woman, floored her. Was she so cold and so jaded that she couldn't feel or understand love anymore? Had she ever at all?

Wobbling on jelly knees, she stuttered out one single word, "Why?"

Sofia only smiled and put her hands into her pockets, "Because you're worth it, Sara. You always have been."

A new sort of pain rippled through her and she forced a smile. Boxful of letters in her hands, she closed the gap between herself and Sofia. She placed the box in the other woman's hands and gently leaned in and kissed Sofia Curtis on the cheek.

Sara walked away, her back to Sofia and to Gil's grave, and looked towards the sunset and to Las Vegas. She started walking, but even as she spoke, she knew that her words were carried back to Sofia on the breeze. "I don't deserve you, Sofia Curtis, and when you figure that out, my misery will be complete." Sara Sidle didn't look back, even as the tears started to fall. She had lost everything and was leaving behind so much that she wanted. Her past and her future were just over her shoulder. She had to go find herself again, so she could embrace both.

Author's Note: If you were expecting a traditionally happy ending, blame my beta reader. She was the one that brought up bitter sweet film nior endings. Okay, so it's all my fault, oh well. Just the epilogue to go and this twisted story will come to a close.


	42. Epilogue

_Epilogue_

_Every time I open my eyes, every dark morning, and see these same gray walls around me, I remember all that I've lost. Maybe it's because you've been here with me the whole time, supporting me until I pushed you away...I do that a lot, push people away. If it was an Olympic Event, I would be the record holder, I think. When I'm feeling low, I pull a letter out of my ever growing collection. Letters from you. Your words soothe me; remind me that no matter how empty this tiny cell is, I'm never alone._

_I worry about you. Out there every night, every day. I saw Dave zip up so many good cops, and if I lose you, I honestly don't know what I'd do. I've lost everyone I've ever loved, ever could have loved. _

_Last week was your birthday, no I didn't forget, Sergeant Curtis. I wondered what you would be doing. Any other woman would have been living it up. Go out for a night on the town, have a hot date. You were probably at the PD, working. That's how I always spent my birthdays. Except that one, do you remember it? You were the only one who remembered, and only because you saw it in my file. You told me that I had to get out of the lab and live a little. We were both a little drunk and you rambled off something about eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may die. I should have listened to you that night. I also should have taken advantage of you in your slightly inebriated state and kissed you. Maybe things would be different._

Beer is just not going to cut it tonight. Letters, she wrote me hundreds and hundreds of reply letters. Scrawled out in her immediately recognizable chicken-scratch, she poured her heart and soul out to me. The liquor cabinet is well-stocked and I run my hands over the smooth bottles until I touch the cool smooth glass of single malt scotch that my mother gave me when I was promoted to Lieutenant.

_"Being a cop is never easy, Sofia."_

I knew you were a Captain, Mother, but not Captain Obvious. It was easy, actually. Being a cop, a detective, was second nature to me. It was like breathing, until everything went to Hell that is. I struggled, of course, but everything was black and white, right or wrong, goddamn guilty or innocent. I toed the line, made other people toe the line. I broke hearts and brought peace, all in good faith. I thought I was_ right_.

Looking back now, I was a fool. My convictions would have crumbled if Sara had sent me any one of these letters. They're spread over my coffee table, over my couch, it's the only clutter in an otherwise neat and tidy condo. My home away from the office for my - oh so many - lonely years. My lonely years. Get a grip on yourself, Curtis. At least you were free.  
I cracked the seal on the scotch and poured it into the nearest glass, not even a shot glass, just the nearest vessel. Who says you can't drink liquor out of a coffee mug? The burn of alcohol down my throat doesn't equal what's going on deeper, in my heart.

Why had she walked away? She cared, I could see it in her eyes, see it in each one of her soul-filled letters to me. Letters that she never sent me. Why? Another swallow and I almost choked because of the bitter laughter that keeps bubbling up. She was still looking out for me, of course, Saint Sara. Weary, I sit down in the chair - the couch is covered with paper - and pull my knees up. Am I trying to blame her? I tried that route before and it was a spectacular failure. I wanted to hate her for loving Grissom, and not me. In some ways, I still want to hate her. I didn't ask to fall in love with Sara Sidle. Love is blind, deaf, dumb and impartial to logic. It's also all consuming, a fire that I can't, don't even want, to put out. Even as she stood over her old lover's grave, I loved her. Wanted to take her in my arms. I stood there, simply watching her, for the longest time. Watched the breeze tease at her curls, watched her sit, and trace the lettering on the tombstone. I watched her shirt crawl up her back to reveal a tantalizing stretch of skin. I looked; I ogled and felt only an ounce of guilt. Some things never change. Others do, like the fact that her skin is no longer pale and unmarked. She got a prison tattoo. Not a gang tattoo, or even a 'Only God Can Judge Me' melodramatic excuse for a tattoo. It took me a moment to place it because even as a child, I had never been especially religious. I had never taken the time to learn about the many saints and martyrs that the Church holds so dear to its heart. Sara, obviously, did, though. Because tattooed on her lower back, in fading black and green ink was Saint Helen, of Skofde. I had to look up the specifics, including the Skofde part, but when I read them off, I wanted to both kiss and shake some sense into Sara Sidle. The saint, the martyr, who she'd had tattooed on her skin had been accused of murder, and killed in retribution for it. Sara had given up and resigned herself to her fate. I hate that. I hate the fact that a beautiful, smart, innocent woman had gone through hell.

A few of the pages, many of them actually, have teardrops blurring the words, both hers and mine. Another scalding shot of scotch has my hand steady enough to pick up the next letter. After the first paragraph, I put it down and blindly reach for the bottle and drink straight from it.

Failure in print. Damn her for telling me these things, damn her for giving me these letters and damn me, damn me the most for failing her. She was miserable, aching, lost, and I was oblivious. Damn it. The tears start leaking out of my eyes and I can hear my mother in my head, _"Big girls don't cry."_ Well, Mom, I'm a big girl, all grown up, and crying. Crying for Sara. For the woman I love. For the woman I may never have. Crying for myself and for the irreparable fuck-up that I allowed happen.

Another drink and another letter, the television is droning on and on, some syndicated rerun of a long-dead medical drama. A curly haired brunette is on screen and, disgusted, I turn the television off and resist the urge to throw the thin remote at the flat plasma screen. Wall to wall carpet, plush leather furniture, a stocked fridge, oh yes, my life has been pitiful. I've lived here, safe, sound and in some kind of a happy state while the woman I love rotted away, losing bits and pieces of herself every day.

Love. I love Sara. Have loved her for a very long time. It's a twisted madness that burns inside of me. It's a desire that lives and breathes inside of me, keeping my soul whole and intact despite the horrors it has seen. I didn't protect her like I should have, which means in this twisted case of finger pointing, I am no innocent. I am guilty, just as guilty as Catherine for doubting Sara, or Greg for turning his back. I think the only true innocent is Sara. All she ever did was love, and had everything torn away from her.

Sara would get it back. What she can't salvage, I'll give her something new to hold on to. It can never replace what she's lost: her career, her lover, her child. Maybe, though, we can begin again, together. Leave the blood smeared desert behind us, go somewhere fresh where no one knows our names. Leave the horror and pain behind, wipe the slate clean. No guilt and no innocence, none of the murky grays that lie in between them.

Is there such a place? If there is, I don't know where to find it. All I can do is pour another shot and hope that when I wake up, Sara will be at my door, ready to go there.

I know it's not going to happen, but I have hope, and I learned to live on that and that alone five years ago.

It's not over, it will never be over, not really. The damage Gillian-fucking-Rayne caused has scarred us all, but scars fade and maybe, just maybe, we will all be able to move on and away from the land mine strewn gray toned place between guilt and innocence.

Fin

Author's Note:

This has been a long, challenging story to write. There are, as always, a few people who deserve some thanks. A big chocolate and sprinkle covered thank you to my beta reader, HoneyLynx86, for her endless patience and advice. To my best friend Jenn, for listening to me ramble for months on end. Throughout the writing of this story, I could have easily become discouraged enough to throw up my hands, but the great reviews I get keep me going. So thanks to everyone who left a review; there are a couple of people in particular that really make me smile, so thanks to Immi, Icklebitodd, and especially El Gringo Loco.

I've been writing fanfiction and posting it up here for about a year and it's coming close to a half now. I've found some like minded people, friends, some confidence, and endless amounts of enjoyment. I have also, through an incredibly lucky and fated series of occurrences, found the love of my life. So the last mention in this long line of thank yous goes to Catherine, who completes me in ways I can't begin to describe. So while some of you are rolling your eyes and muttering under your breathe, or even exiting the window, this one's for you, Cathy, my muse and partner in all things.

Thanks for Reading everyone and stick around because I plan to be rather productive this summer.

RebelByrdie


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